


Run Me

by moffnat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forced Marriage, Honeymoon, Manipulation, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Obsession, Older Man/Younger Woman, Possessive Behavior, Underage Sex, for some reason there's no "spousal rape" tag but if there was i'd put it here, i swear it's a good fic y'all it just...sounds fucked up, like my life tbh, like this ship, yikes these tags look scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/pseuds/moffnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Honesty? That is all you want?" He stepped closer, invading her space as he so often did, his fingers taking a strand of her hair between them. Petyr's eyes met hers. Fire burned bright in his gaze of gray-green, stoked by desire so raw she could choke on it. "Then I shall give you honesty."</p><p>Sansa Stark is set to marry Harrold Hardyng, much to her dismay. Petyr Baelish has plans, however, that involve her willingness no matter how manipulated, and a bloodied dagger in the dark. <b>Based on show/book canon up through season four & AFFC.</b> Reader discretion advised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father's Warning, Suitor's Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * I tripped headfirst into the Petyr/Sansa fandom. Sorry if you were expecting Sansan. I'll get back to them soon, but cravings come first. I'm a sinner through and through.  
> 
> * Yeah, I title my fics after song lyrics. Sue me. [Here's the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoO_EYPjh6o) that makes me think of this pairing like none other.  
> 
> * This fic does feature a **minor fade-to-black rape scene in chapter three.** I'll make it obvious so you can skip if need be.  
> 
> * This (obviously) came out before TWOW, so if you're reading this in that distant future and don't think Harry's characterization lines up, it probably doesn't! I just used him as I needed to. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> 
> * Make sure to read the tags!

She remembered the kiss. It would not be easily forgotten, stolen from her on the whim of a madman in a castle in the sky. His lips had taken her soul from between her teeth and left her with nothing but the air between them. Sansa could not forget that moment, the ruined snowcastle and soft flakes along cloaked shoulders and skin. But most of all, she remembered what it was like to be wanted. How long had it been since she’d felt a lover’s touch? It was foreign and strange, but no stranger than Petyr Baelish’s desire, locked away so deeply with patience even the gods would envy. To be the focal point of something so sinfully unspoken was too much for her to bear. Sansa kept her heart under lock and key, all while Alayne Stone kept watch for the predator.

Alayne had taken over where Sansa once was. She was happy in the Eyrie, pleased to further her potential and influence under the guidance of a wise father. She’d found friendship in unlikely places and comfort from a past of fear. She’d even mourned Sweetrobin genuinely after his passing. She was home here, as close as she could be, but memories of a different home conflicted with her joy. A home of Stark smiles and Tully hair, Robb’s hugs and her mother’s love. _No,_ thought Alayne, _that is not my home anymore. He asked me to be his daughter in my heart, so I must._

Time was a cruel mistress. The longer she kept the act, the more she missed what was lost.

Alayne’s façade trembled in the face of her wedding date. Three days’ time would see her wedded and bedded with Harrold Arryn, a spoiled brat of a boy she wholly disdained. Alayne knew she should be strong. Her father would not be afraid. But the more she gave thought to the coming ceremony, the more her resolve began to waver. She was not a frightened girl by nature, the shell of her heart having hardened over time, but there was something to be feared in another marriage. Harry would not be as kind as Sansa’s lord husband. Regardless of her father’s plans, Alayne remained skeptical and nervous, vowing not to proceed without some level of caution.

“Lady Alayne?” called a voice behind her door. She jumped as a serving woman knocked. “Are you still awake?”

“Y-Yes,” she stuttered. “Come in.”

The woman entered as Alayne turned in her chair. “Your father has sent for you, dear. At once.”

 _At once?_ She bit her lip. “Thank you. I’ll go to him.”

“Best be quick, my lady. The hour is late.”

Alayne nodded as the door closed again. Why would her father have need of her now? She couldn’t find a logical reason, but there was no immediate logic behind many of the things he did. It was all for the sake of something bigger. Whatever his motives, she dare not refuse him. Alayne grabbed a candle and placed it securely in a bronze holder, lighting it with a match she struck to life. The flame illuminated her dark hair like the shade it used to be. She slipped on a nightrobe and exited her humble chambers, ascending the stairs to her father’s tower.

She did not knock. Alayne never had to. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, clearing her throat when she faced the open solar. It was mostly empty, save for a pile of ledgers on a desk and shuffled paperwork here and there. More of his games, more of his tools. An open window brought cold air through the room like water seeping through a crack. It refreshed and chilled her all the same, that familiar chill of anxiety she thought she’d chased away.

“Father?” Alayne called to the darkness. “Where are you? I was told you summoned me.”

Moments passed before he emerged from the adjacent room. He was still dressed from the day, highly fashionable as always with his trademark mockingbird pin resting at his throat. A smirk passed his lips when he saw her. “Alayne,” he said in greeting, approaching her swiftly. “I trust I did not wake you?” He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, one of many ways he liked to show fatherly affection.

“You didn’t,” she replied. “The nights are hard. I don’t sleep well.”

“Shame. You should rest while you can.” He removed his hand from her and walked about the room, lighting candles where there once was darkness. Alayne didn’t know what he’d been doing elsewhere, but it seemed he planned to stay a while, at least in her company. “I suspect your nocturnal loneliness will soon be cured.”

Her face flushed. “I suppose.”

“Come. Sit with me.” Her father gestured to the hearth filled with embers of a dying fire. Not nearly enough to keep her warm, but her blood was of the North; cold would not spite her. Alayne obliged and crossed the room to sit in a chair by the fireplace. She placed her candle on the table between them and watched as he approached the mantle, grabbing a pitcher of water and two glasses. “I have something to tell you,” he said while pouring. “Something important.”

Alayne took the cup of offered refreshment. “At this hour?” she asked. “Could it not wait?”

He chuckled. “Plans wait for no one, sweetling. Those who hesitate fall behind.” Her father took his goblet in-hand and sat in the chair across from her, watching her, until urgency begged him to speak. “There are the plans you let the world know.” He gestured to the door, representing the unimportant people beyond. "A marriage to shift power in the Vale, arranged by the man seeking it. An old tale, oft repeated, that none would question. Then there are the plans you keep quiet, but just loud enough for others to hear if they know how to listen." He leaned forward in his chair, taking his tone barely above a whisper. "A mysterious daughter of an ambitious man turns out to be more than she seems. A marriage used to seize far more than just one of the Seven Kingdoms. Tales the pawns will never hear, nor most of the players, but the most observant of the lot will think they've learned it all. Perhaps you thought the same when I told you of those plans."

Sansa watched his eyes flitter toward the door. He was not speaking to Alayne anymore, having read between the lines of her mask enough to guide it off with words of the future. He seemed worried about eavesdroppers, so she leaned in closer to hear him better when he spoke.

"The truth is never so simple. Reserve that only for those who matter, those who are neither pawns nor opponents in the game, those you trust." Sansa’s breath hitched as he moved even closer to meet her, voice lowered so far that any listener would have to sit between them to overhear. "You need to understand this before your wedding day. The truth is that Harry the Heir will never win the North. He will dither and promise to move soon, but there will always be pressing business at home to worry about. I have known this from the first, but he and your wedding are vital to my true plans to see you returned safely to your home. It would be…unfortunate for you to put your faith in his hands only to see it crumble to dust. That is why I tell you now, before he has a chance to disappoint you." 

The confirmation of her fears brought doubt. Sansa had always known Harry would be less than helpful in her quest to reclaim Winterfell, but to hear it from the mouth of the puppetmaster made her sorrow grow. She sat back in her seat with a frown on her lips, eyeing the hearth's red coals and wishing they were fire again. “He reminds me of King Robert,” she admitted. “In his later years. Drunken, spoiled, whoring. I shouldn’t be surprised by what you’re telling me, but I thought you wanted me to make him mine. Make him see.”

“You may yet,” he replied, returning to his typical posture. “But it is his title and his heir you need, Alayne. Nothing more.”

 _His heir. His child._ That was her duty, a woman's duty. Sansa unknowingly placed a hand over her abdomen, imagining what it would be like to feel life beneath her skin. She'd always wanted to be a mother, before notions of prince charmings and happily ever afters were stripped from her like the many dresses Joffrey tore. She would be a good mother, too. Taking care of her children's needs above all else, giving them gifts of confidence, intelligence and grace.  _I would be like my lady mother._ But with a father like Harrold Arryn, she knew her children would not grow to see true love exampled for them like it was for the Starks. Sansa remembered her parents' fond kisses in the middle of dinner, how they'd snuggle in bed every night, how their occasional disagreements were always calm and collected discussions. Sansa would never have that. Those were memories of happier days, days gone by. Was it foolish for her to desire them still?

Sansa wished Petyr was crafting a lie. She said nothing. After a time, he broke the silence again.

"I wouldn't subject you to his attentions for long. He needs an heir from a wife of meaningful connections, and afterward I'm sure he will be content to leave you be. Certain bargains have been struck to assure it. Political marriages needn't be a horrible burden."

“That doesn’t make them pleasant.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap and fumbled with them nervously. “But I suppose I will have to face it.”

"If everything goes to plan, you won't need to ask anyone outside this room for help in achieving your goals.” Petyr’s crooked smile grew. “They will offer their assistance gladly and you need only accept. Perhaps that thought will make the nights to come easier for you." It wasn’t paternal assurance she saw in his gaze, nor was it devilish enough to be considered a fraud. But it lacked innocence, of that she was certain, and Sansa took a moment to contemplate his meaning.

"Will everyone in this room promise to help me and my family go home?" She faced him then, not asking as his bastard daughter. This was Sansa's concern and hers alone. "If I'm to bear children, I will see them safe and protected. From anyone." _Including you,_  she added with her eyes, leaving those words unspoken.

Her meaning was not missed. His smile took a turn of amusement. “From anyone,” he agreed. "All I've done for you has been to help you go where you belong. That courtesy will of course extend to your children, and I would see them safe as if they were my own. Whatever you may think of me, I would not lie to you about this."

He would, though. He had lied about lesser things. Sansa kept his gaze and tried to decipher the horrible mystery buried within that might give her some inkling to his true agenda. Once again, she came up empty. Petyr stood in a manner more akin to a wealthy suitor than a gallant father, and offered his hand accordingly. “You should rest, my dear. It is late and there is much work yet to be done. Go, get some sleep, and we will speak of this another time.”

Alayne took her father's hand. There was no sense in opening an issue when he had closed it, but she still felt unprotected somehow, unclean, as if she'd been spoonfed lies and her body was rejecting them. Still, he had not laid a hand on her in punishment, nor had he asked her to do things she wasn't entirely unwilling to do. Whether or not Catelyn Stark's resemblance kept her safe was unclear, though it mattered little in the end. Alayne's focus had shifted from the past with Joffrey to the future with Harry the Heir.

"Goodnight, Father," said Alayne as she exited the room with her candle. When she finally entered her chambers again, the anxious girl did not sleep a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh  
> this fic....it gon be good  
> HOLY SHIT my first fic in a whole year, here I am, yes hello, moffnat has returned  
> I took a year off because of, like, 800 family deaths (not really, more like 6) and I just lost the desire to update. But it seems that summer is my fic-writing season, so we'll see what I can do in 2016. *cracks knuckles* READY 2 GO  
> I'm always a slut for comments. As an aspiring novelist, it'll help me when I've got my degree done, blah blah, all my veteran readers know the drill. (Credit to my forum husband who's helping me write Petyr. You know who you are. <3)  
> Oh, and as always, WEEKLY UPDATES. I'll be updating **every Saturday and Tuesday** until this fic is complete, and then I'll start another one. (Not unlike what I did with Sansan last year. I guess I've got a pattern.)  
>  See you soon lovelies, and here's a quick welcome to all my new readers! <3 I hope you love my work as much as I do!


	2. To Cage a Songbird

The quill scratched along the surface of fresh parchment, a pleasant sound leading to pleasant plans. His handwriting was intentionally sloppy. A few rushed notes here, a few miscalculated numbers there and gold filled his pockets to the brim, unquestioned. Subtle tricks Petyr learned in Gulltown. They would be much needed in the days to come. Trips across the Narrow Sea weren’t cheap, nor were the secret happenings that came along with them. Months of eager planning had led to this moment. Petyr wore a smile as the last line was written, a signature of finality on a fantasy made real. Only time would give him what he wanted. All that remained was the slow agony of waiting, a restraint crafted carefully over many years of practice.

As scheming as Petyr was, his mind fell back to the coming marriage. How quickly time had passed. By twilight the following day, Sansa Stark would face the world again, trueborn and noble, to marry Harry Arryn and set Petyr’s plans in motion. One piece after another, dominoes falling in a twisted shape. He would certainly relish in the ripple effects, but an odd sense of uneasiness washed over him. He eyed the parcel containing Sansa’s maiden cloak where it rested on a vanity. The thought of her wearing it, on his arm to be given to a useless _boy_ made his stomach turn. Sansa was becoming a pressure point. Her smile, her beauty, her quick wit and cleverness. Littlefinger knew he had to purge her before the infection was too deep to cut out, but Petyr wanted her near, wanted her as his own. Lord Arryn would not be a generous husband, nor would he cherish her as Petyr longed to. The plans, unfortunately, could not be halted. Petyr hoped he’d prepared her enough to handle what was to come.

A knock came at his door. Short and quiet. “Come in,” he said, rising from his desk and closing the financial ledger before him. To his mild surprise, Alayne entered the study in that meek, shy way of hers, less his bastard daughter and more a girl she wasn’t supposed to be. The girl he craved. Petyr took full advantage of the sight of her, clothed in the colors of House Baelish with a silver mockingbird pendant dangling around her neck. The vision gave him pride. He straightened his back to greet her. “Alayne, is something the matter? I thought you’d be with your intended.” Petyr moved around the table to come to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It is the eve of your wedding, my dear. You should be celebrating.”

“I know. I know I should.” Her voice was not pleased, not bright and upbeat like the one he so enjoyed listening to. Petyr raised a questioning brow.

“Tell me what troubles you.”

“I…” Alayne sighed. “I came to ask if you would dine with us, Father. I would like to have you with me.”

 _A strange request._ Petyr narrowed his eyes, fixated on those Tully rivers he’d fallen for long ago. She was playing him, she had to be. Manipulate the teacher to alter the assignment. But her marriage to Harry Arryn was set in stone, no matter how much she—or he—resisted.

“Are you still nervous?” asked Petyr gently, grazing the back of his hand along her cheekbone. “You will be Lady of the Vale, a position far beyond that of any other baseborn girl. The envy of every maid in the Eyrie. This step is necessary to achieve what we’ve set out for.”

“I know.” Sansa, not Alayne, shied away from his touch. She walked over to the balcony and wrung her hands, a gesture he recognized during her times of fear. “He’s not the most enjoyable person. His jokes are crude and all he talks about is his stupid knighthood, one he barely even earned.” She turned to him, eyes begging for that which he’d surely give. “Will you come with me, Father? Please?” Her unspoken words hung in the air; _I’d rather not go without you._

Something in the way she asked broke his refusal. A subtle crack in the mask, nothing more. He drew a deep breath. “I suppose I can step away from my work for one night,” said Petyr in consent, unable to hide how pleased he was at the idea of her needing him. He blew out the candles on his desk. They flickered before fading into smoke. “Shall we go?”

Sansa gave a grateful nod as she took his arm, and together they walked to the dining hall.

Harry was perched at the head of the long table. He was dressed in the colors of his House, a name regrettably given by Robin’s death. Sansa stepped into the role of Alayne and beamed at her intended. It was as if she’d never been worried at all. _She has learned well._ “Lord Arryn,” said Alayne upon entry, executing her best curtsy. Petyr followed suit with a bow.

Harry soured when he noticed his unexpected guest. “What’s he doing here?”

“I invited him,” Alayne replied. “I wanted to dine with my father tonight. It was him who helped arrange the marriage, after all. Shouldn’t he be here to celebrate with us?”

“I am touched, of course, to be cherished so.” Petyr placed a hand over his chest. “It does my heart well to see you happy.”

Harry did not respond. He waved a dismissive hand and Alayne took a seat at her future husband’s right side. Petyr took the one to his left, ever-observant, ever-calculating. The pair was far less talkative than usual. Either Petyr’s presence had dampened whatever friendliness Harry had, or Alayne was too anxious to speak. He did not know which option he preferred. Both were equally amusing.

Meaningless small talk saw them through to dinner. Roasted boar seasoned with rosemary and thyme, potatoes with butter, cheese with boiled eggs and red wine to share. The three of them ate in an awkward silence that filled Petyr with frivolity. His eyes lifted to Alayne now and again, wondering why she’d insisted so heavily on his attendance if the evening would lack event. She was always confident before. _What does she fear?_  It wasn’t until Harry spoke that Petyr turned his attention away from her.

“Where will you go when Alayne and I are married, Baelish?” Harry took a bite of boar and continued talking with his mouth full. “Surely you won’t stay here. The Vale has a new Lord now, no need to slither about.”

Petyr’s irritation was thinly veiled. “Pentos, my lord. I have business in the free cities that requires my immediate attention. I will leave the Eyrie shortly after you and my daughter depart for your honeymoon.”

“So you’ll be in Pentos with us?” Alayne sounded hopeful.

"For a time, yes.”

Harry sighed. “I meant _after_ that _._ Permanently.”

Petyr’s mouth twitched. _How ironic, that I'm unwelcome here._ “I still have things to attend to in the Vale. If you’ll permit me, Lord Arryn, I had hoped to stay until winter at the very least.”

“Of course you can stay,” chimed Alayne quickly. Too quickly. She smiled from across the table, but Petyr was enough of an expert in Sansa to read between expressions. Her fingers fumbled with her dinner fork. _Anxious, fearful._ “You can even stay through winter if you like. It’ll be much safer here than the Fingers. Warmer as well.”

Petyr thought for a moment, eyes never leaving hers in a gaze both charming and challenging. “Would you like me to stay, Alayne?” he asked with a grin. “I shall leave the matter up to you.”

She paused, unaware that he would give her such power. He hadn’t, in truth; the plans he’d made were already bearing fruit whether she willed it or no, but he was curious to see what she did with her answer. Her discomfort brought him sinful delight. Alayne pushed the potatoes around her plate and chewed her lip. “I would,” she decided. “Very much.”

“I will stay, then. For you.” Nothing was sweeter than that.

Harry didn’t share his intended’s declaration. He straightened in his seat, trying to assert authority. Petyr was reminded briefly of a rooster. “Do I have no say in this?”

“What would you like to say?” Alayne set down her fork and wiped her mouth with a napkin, preparing to speak at length. “My father is one of the smartest men in Westeros. He is accomplished in finances, politics, marriages, negotiations and trade. He already improved the Vale in the short time he was Lord Protector. Sending him away would be foolish, Harry. I know you’re new to being a lord, but you should take advice wherever you can get it. He _will_ stay.” Alayne flashed her father a nervous look. “I want him nearby.”

 _Do you?_ Petyr smirked in that dark way of his, taking another drink of wine and eyeing her over the rim of his glass. Her defense of him was flattering and bolstered his ego considerably, but there was also warmth there, a comfort in her words. How strange it was, to be wanted. “Don’t worry. Lord Arryn is no fool, Alayne, he’ll make the right choice. I will never be far from your door.”

Her smile was small but genuine, leaving Petyr feeling oddly disadvantaged.

The rest of their dinner passed without much protest. Harry dragged on about his knighthood and belittled Alayne, mentioning his two bastard children and how his first woman got “fat as a cow” during pregnancy—naturally, he hoped that wouldn’t happen to her. Petyr listened intently. Alayne didn’t stand for many of Harry’s japes, but she was not at ease in her defenses and her eyes pleaded with Petyr for mercy. He could not oblige. He could, however, steal her away from her husband-to-be for perhaps a final night of solitude. The first of many gifts to come. When the wine ran out and Harry was half-drunk, Petyr offered his hand to her, assured in knowing she preferred his company. “Come, sweetling. You should get your rest. Tomorrow will be a long day, and a young bride’s weariness foreshadows ill union.”

“Yes, Father,” said Alayne eagerly. She kissed Harry’s cheek before he could protest, and the shock of her initiative silenced him into submission. Petyr offered his arm again. She took it gratefully, and the two left Lord Arryn to return her to her chambers.

Father and daughter turned down an empty hallway. When she was certain the knights wouldn’t hear her, Sansa exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath for ages. “My future is with _that_ ,” she said under her breath. “I’d rather marry a toad.”

“You’ll make a man out of him yet,” chuckled Petyr. “Don't underestimate yourself.”

“That’s the problem. He thinks he already _is_ a man.” Sansa glanced over her shoulder to ensure they weren’t being followed, but regardless she knew better than to shed cover so openly. “Being a man is all he talks about, but he’s still just a boy.”

“And what do you know of manhood, my dear?” _Oh, what a question._ He eyed her provocatively, certain she would catch his double meaning. “It is so very hard to pin down.”

Her flushed face was its own reward. “I know a man when I see one,” she replied. “As for manhood, it is _far_ less complicated than womanhood. I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Petyr stopped at her door. Sansa’s words were forward, so blunt where she was normally shy, and it pulled at something in his core that spurned a deep hunger. He stared at her. She felt small; he could tell by the way she shrunk back against her door, like she was prey. His eyes must have let loose a desire not meant for the moment. He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest, smirking to distract her from another momentary crack. “Harry is not a man to you, then. Who is?”

“…other men,” she said. Her coyness stoked his lust. Sansa fumbled with her fingers, her voice lowering so only he could hear. “I don’t know how to make him mine.”

“Yes you do. Think _hard._ ” He closed the distance between them, so close that their chests nearly brushed. Petyr smiled as her breath hitched and hastened, a rose color rising to her cheeks. “You are skilled, Alayne. You’ve learned from the very best. Now it is time to put those lessons into practice. I’m sure you will find something in your husband worth shaping.” He lifted her chin with his finger. “If not, however, you needn’t worry. There are other ways you could learn. _Better_ ways.”

Petyr’s tone caught her off-guard. She looked at him blankly as nothing but Sansa, nothing but the way he wanted her. Moments passed before she gently pushed his hand from her face. “I believe that is between me and my husband, _Father_.” She spoke with confidence, but her chest rose and fell with every breath. Only after reading the heat in his eyes did she deliver her secret dagger. “I know you want me to succeed, but I’m afraid. You didn’t ask me what I wanted when you decided to marry me off. You have all these plans, but you assume I’m going to follow them like some pawn and not a player. You said you would bring me home and then tangled me up in your foul web, and now—“

She stopped abruptly. Petyr frowned as he caught the sorrow in her stare. Her feelings on the marriage were known, but never thought of. He had always remained focused on his own ambitions. But how would those goals be reached if his final target was unhappy? He wanted her willing. He was selfish, inconsiderate, and his resolve wavered in knowing that it may cost him in gaining her affections. Sansa must have seen the fire fade from his eyes. She softened as well, her shoulders lowering from their tense incline. “Goodnight,” she said briskly, slipping to her room and closing the door. Petyr was left on a tightrope, struggling to find the balance between success and failure that Sansa thrust him on. Where was his true fault? Where did he misstep?

He stood at her door many moments too long. After hardening his walls, Petyr returned to his chambers to reconsider what it meant to cage a songbird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bah  
> for some reason this chapter feels really weak to me??? I think I've just been staring at it for too long. I've never written Petyr's perspective before, so it was a strange and weird experience. Shoutout and thanks to [Megan](http://msandei.tumblr.com), [Connie](http://emmafrosticle.tumblr.com) and [Amanda](http://glenns.tumblr.com) who helped me out, because I'm a feedback whore and I just can't get enough. WHO CARES, HAVE THIS CHAPTER. I promised weekly updates, so weekly updates I shall give. I hope the finished product isn't too terribly awful (but i need to grow up and get used to it considering rotating POV's are my thing). Why do I do this to myself? The world will never know.  
> See you Saturday, lovelies! <3


	3. Clipped Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * This is the chapter with the non-con scene. You'll know when it's about to happen, so when it gets near, feel free to skip (though it is very mild and not graphic, so there's that).

The parcel lay open on her chamber floor. Sansa had stared at it for a full hour, hesitant and wary. Her wedding gown was no small spectacle. Made specifically for the future Lady of the Vale, it was decorated with goose feathers and sashes of white silk, making any young bride appear like a songbird at rest. A younger Sansa would have been thrilled to wear such a garment, convinced it made her a princess in her own right. Time had changed her. The naiveté had long since died, replaced with disillusion.

Sansa feared the pain that lay in her future with Harrold Arryn.  _This is just temporary,_  she thought, searching for comfort.  _I will have Harry’s children and then I can go home. To Winterfell where I belong._  She could almost taste the ice in the air and feel the snow on her long lashes, sprinkled on her skin just so, but that distant possibility was far from her here-and-now. She sat pensively at the edge of her bed. The natural color of her hair had returned, auburn curls pinned back in a suitable style for a southern bride, and Sansa was naked as her nameday, sitting. Waiting.  _Courage, come back to me._

This was her course. This dress, this place. Sansa stood and pulled the gown from its wrappings, slipping it over her curves and pale frame. She looked in the mirror when the laces were tied and saw an elegant Lady Stark looking back, a woman with vigor and stamina and scars that had thickened her skin to steel. She straightened her posture. _Mother would not have been afraid,_  thought Sansa.  _Robb wouldn't be, and Father wouldn't either. My_ true _father. I must be brave for them._

Sansa slipped her delicate feet into crystal shoes that clicked when she walked. Unsure of what to do, she paced about her bedchamber before coming to rest at the edge of the open balcony. Sunlight sparkled overhead. Distant mountains glowed with frost, and for a moment she could close her eyes and feel a touch of home again. The image gave her peace. Despite knowing it would shatter, she clung to it, keeping the memory of Winterfell as the rock she would stand on.

“Sansa,” came a voice. She hadn’t heard him enter. “It’s almost time.”

She couldn’t face him. Not yet. Sansa remembered how vulnerable he’d made her feel, a mouse caught in the sweetest trap. She could never pinpoint her meaning to him, never decipher what she was worth. His plans claimed to benefit her and the North’s retribution, but she’d yet to truly see it, as much as she trusted his skills in playing the game. When would he abandon her for some greater goal? Sansa fidgeted. Silence and tension passed between them, unacknowledged but certainly felt.

Petyr spoke again. “Come. Let me have a look at you before the cloaking. We must make sure nothing is out of place.”

With a deep breath, Sansa obeyed. She lifted her cream-colored skirts and turned. Her eyes remained on the floor at first, counting the stones as she passed them, but her gaze met his when she stopped a few feet from him. Grey-green eyes wore an expression of buried lust. He examined her appearance from her shoes to her braided hair, searching for a flaw, anything he could rearrange. He walked around her in a slow pace. Sansa could sense him stripping her bare in his mind, not for the first time, but today she did not care. It was almost comforting, sickeningly so, compared to the treatment that may await her at Harry’s hands. Color rushed to her cheeks when Petyr faced her again. “You will make many a jealous lord today.”

“Those lords will only catch a glimpse.” Sansa returned his smile, though hers was less confident. Uncertain. She outstretched her hands to straighten the mockingbird pin on his shoulder, one that kept an emerald sash hooked around his fine black clothes. "The people of the Vale will remember me until they die, but they will also remember the man who brought the last surviving Stark back into the world. You must look perfect too, even if you're only in the background.”

“You will find no protest on my part.” Petyr smirked as he looked at her hands. When she was done, they returned to her side.

“Last night,” Sansa blurted. “The way I spoke to you.”

“Think nothing of it, my lady.”

“I do, though.” She sighed. “I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have said those things to you, I was just—“

“Sansa.” He silenced her with a hand on her shoulder, warm and comforting. His touch on bare skin made her heart flutter. “Enough. I can tell you are nervous, but there is nothing to fear. I told you that you wouldn’t suffer Harry’s attention for long, didn’t I? We must play our parts, however unfortunate.” Petyr brushed his thumb along her shoulder before removing his hand entirely. “I have a gift for you.”

Sansa raised her brow. “What is it?”

Petyr took half a step back and lifted his left arm, draped with a white and smoke-colored maiden's cloak. Stitched direwolves pranced along the sides with fox fur trim on the collar, but the cloak was not his gift. Turning up his left palm, he exposed a diamond brooch of pristine craftsmanship, shaped in the form of a leaping trout. Sansa softly gasped as it glittered in the sun. “Letting you wed without a mark of Tully on you would be an insult to Catelyn’s memory,” said Petyr. “I’m sure it’s not like the one she often wore, but it will suffice I hope?”

A sentimental gift would be expected if Sansa had been paying attention. But she was still young and vulnerable to the Stark way, the heartfelt way. Perhaps that was why he’d bothered with such a present at all. She picked up the brooch and held it in her hands, still warm from Petyr’s palm, and brushed her fingers over the silver. Though her mind forbade it, Sansa’s eyes began to water. “It’s beautiful. You’re right, it’s not like the one she wore, but this is more than a wonderful substitute.” Sansa beamed at the memory of her mother’s pin, always on her gown no matter the occasion. “She wanted all five of us to have something like this for our weddings. I wonder if she gave one to Robb too, when he married Jeyne…”

Petyr did not reply. Sansa didn’t need him to. Her smile was gentle when she looked at him again, though her warmth was not reciprocated. A hint of melancholy lurked in his stare. “Thank you, Petyr,” she muttered. “Can I keep it?”

“Of course.” His tone was thin, deep. “I hope it serves to remind you of better days.” Petyr extended his hand to take back his offering. “May I cloak the bride, my lady?”

She nodded. Sansa handed him the brooch and watched him unveil the maiden’s cloak from his arm, shaking it out gently. It was a sight to behold, purity taken form. Petyr moved behind her to drape the cloak over her shoulders. His right arm reached around her, and then the other, fastening the fox fur with the diamond fish. A shiver raced up her spine, so quick he was sure to notice. Sansa allowed herself a second to yield. She melted into the security of his chest mere inches from her back, his fingers at her throat, closing the gifted pin just barely touching her neck. This was all a part of the game, wasn’t it? There was no room for her heart on the chessboard. But if he could hold her a moment longer and chase the unbidden fears from sight…

He did not. Petyr pulled away, leaving her crestfallen and more vulnerable than before, and spoke words that shoved a stake in her heart. "Are you ready to face your soon-to-be husband?"

 _No._  Sansa wished she could say the word, but she couldn't. Not now. Instead of taking his arm, she faced him. Her eyes were filled with fear, a saddened curiosity. “My husband will not be kind,” she said, soft as silk, barely above a whisper. “Would you have been kind?”

Petyr stood in silence. His mouth hung agape. He seemed lost, stripped of all expectations and made speechless by her innocence. They stared at each other, fire blazing between them that neither could comprehend. Longing, that was what she saw. Petyr longed for her. Sansa began to realize how much she longed for him as well, made fiercer by the prospect of another man’s touch.

“Sansa…” His voice was hoarse and woeful. He cleared his throat. For the first time, she watched him struggle to find the right words. “Were I to stand with you before the septon today…yes, I would be kind, though perhaps you would not see it at first. Kindness can live in the darkest of hearts, after all." He took a short step forward, closing the distance as he had one early morning not long ago, the day of the snowcastle. Sansa’s throat tightened. She was certain he would pull her in for another kiss, a brush of lips on lips to seal a secret marriage of their own, but instead he quickly withdrew. Petyr offered his right arm, a proper gentleman ready to escort a lady to her wedding. "It wouldn't do to dwell too long on what might have been, sweetling. A different path lies before us today. Your unkind husband awaits."

Something broke inside him; she could see it in his eyes, like glass. Sansa couldn't decide if she believed him, but as he'd told her once before, the best deceits bled from truth. His eyes were never as open as they were now. There was no trace of Littlefinger anymore, merely Petyr Baelish, a boy with nothing grown into a man with everything. _Except me,_  Sansa thought. She slipped her arm in his and resigned to what lay ahead. It seemed a monster's kindness was all she could find, but it was still as sweet a kindness as any.

Petyr led her from the bedchamber. While Sansa was certain the day would be remembered, the most haunting part was the way he'd said her name. 

  


 

The ceremony and the following celebration were as magnificent as Petyr had promised. Every lord fawned over their new Lady of the Vale, Sansa Stark by blood and birth, and the gifts and cuisine were fit for royalty. Sansa thanked those who approached her and offered apologies for her late family, promises of revenge and devotion to her cause. She was gifted with tea to encourage fertility, beautiful silk gowns and hair combs, crystal shoes and perfume. She was showered in adoration from the knights of the Vale who’d loved her father and Jon Arryn, but there was sorrow mingled among each gift she was presented with. Sansa pitied her younger self for thinking marriage was what life was for. Harry Arryn sat drunk to her right side and made crude comments throughout the party, truly the prince charming she’d dreamed of. "A man ought to drink on his wedding feast!" he'd said with great laughter. "A toast to a noble bride, a toast to destroying our enemies!"

Sansa was pleased with none of it. She acted her part and entertained the guests, but each time she sought Lord Baelish's company, she never seemed to find him. She could use the comfort of a presence she was familiar with. Was this another test? Was Petyr gauging how she functioned on her own? On any other day, Sansa would have welcomed the challenge with an open mind, but Harry continued to stare at her like an object and she wanted Petyr near.  _How many times did he promise to protect me? He can't tonight, but he could ease my mind a little._ The tremble of her hands told her it was needed. Without any prompting, Sansa stood from the dias to search the ballroom.

Many faces came to greet her. Sansa met them all with a smile, with grace and poise and ladylike charm, but she wasn't interested in conversation. Polite distractions kept her away from unwanted people. She kept the Tully pin clutched in her palm as she moved through the happy crowds.  _Where is he?_  Sansa thought in panic.  _Where has he gone?_

"M’lady Stark!” shouted Harry from behind. Sansa jumped at the sudden voice in her ear and whirled to face him. He grabbed her waist and pulled her close. "The hour is late. Would you do your good husband the honor of letting him escort you to our chambers?"

"You're drunk," Sansa blurted. Harry snorted in reply, struggling to stay balanced.

"Of course I'm drunk. But I can still perform. Anyone could perform with a bride like you."

Sansa did not accept the compliment. A few knights of the Vale scowled at their lord's behavior. "I was looking for Lord Baelish," she calmly explained, writhing from his grasp. "I'd like to speak to him."

"Do it tomorrow." Harry snatched her arm. "We have business to attend to. The _good_ part."

Sansa bit her lip. There was no refusing him; she knew that look in a man’s eye. She turned to the nearest knight, Ser Lothor Brune, who looked at her with pity. "If you...if you see Lord Baelish, would you tell him I was looking for him?"

"Of course, Lady Arryn." He frowned at her. "Should I escort you to your chambers?"

"That would be—“

"No, I've got it." Harry gripped Sansa’s waist possessively. "Thank you for the offer, though. Tell this rabble that we’ve gone to bed." Before she could reply, Sansa was whisked away, disappearing from what remained of their wedding celebration. Her heart felt heavy. She followed Harry silently to the chambers of the Lord of the Vale, decorated in blue and silver and white and black, all elegant and regal, but not all hers. Sansa entered the room and wrung her hands. Candles illuminated the shadows in a dull glow, but she could not appreciate their beauty.

The door shut behind her. She dared not make a move, waiting to see what kind of man Harry would prove himself to be.

"Tell me," he said after a long silence, pouring himself a glass of Dornish sour. "How does Alayne Stone become Sansa Stark? Or, vice versa."

"Hair dye and falsehoods," she replied, regretfully setting the Tully brooch down on a table. "And protection from Lord Baelish."

"Slippery man, that one. I want him gone." He swallowed the wine in his glass whole and poured himself another. "Littlefinger. What a stupid name."

"I don't want him to go anywhere." Sansa pulled her courage together, what little remained, and faced him. "You've had too much to drink. It’s making you angry. You're saying things you don't mean, but it’s important to remember that I am Lady of the Vale just as you are Lord. I want him here, as I said at dinner, so he will stay."

Harry's eyes widened larger than she'd ever seen them. Sansa watched him drink as he eyed her with a more immediate, primal lust. With a deep breath of resignation, she spoke again. "Just…be kind," she asked. "That's all I require of you."

"Kind? Where’s the fun in that?" Harry finished the second cup of wine and slammed it on the table. “It’s my wedding night too, you know. You don’t get to 'require' things just because you’re some high-and-mighty Stark of Winterfell. You’re no better than me.”

 _Am I?_  But Sansa did not challenge him. Her resolve had already faltered. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked at the laces of her gown. Sansa clenched her eyes shut and prayed until it was over, until she was naked and bare before her lord husband as the gods made her. He removed the pins from her hair. Auburn curls fell to the base of her spine. Sansa covered her chest, always modest, but it was not enough for a man with wine in the belly. Harry turned her to face him and eased her arms away, soaking her in like the liquor he loved. It wasn't like the way Petyr looked at her. He would drink from the sight of her clothed body, but his lips never touched the glass, save once. Harry's mouth would be all over her by the time the night was through.

"Sansa Stark," he muttered, astonished, not looking at her face. "You are beautiful."

She did not thank him. Harry yawned and pulled away, unbuttoning his tunic casually as if she was a tavern whore and he was late for an appointment. "Lay down," he said, "and spread your legs. This wedding night’s gotta be good for both of us, and I’ll get my share." He hiccupped. "If you want me to go north, Lady Stark, I've got to see if Winterfell is worth it."

Her temper flared, but not nearly as much as her fear.  _For Winterfell,_  she thought.  _For home._  Sansa did as he requested and laid back upon the bed, but kept her knees touching. Only when Harry approached, his breeches around his ankles, did he force her legs apart with a jerk. Sansa whimpered when his lips met her neck. She couldn't find it in herself to be obedient, couldn't be the dutiful wife Petyr wanted her to be. She was so young, so innocent. Was there no place for purity in the world anymore? She closed her eyes and tried to pretend Harry was someone else. Anyone else. Tyrion Lannister, Sandor Clegane, even Petyr Baelish in the flesh. Still, Harry's kisses were not a comfort and they did nothing to arouse her. He removed his tunic and came down for her again. She felt sick, filthy. Impure.  _Please,_ she begged to whatever gods still listened.  _Please let this be over soon._

“Eugh,” groaned Harry when he looked down at her. “If you’re not going to enjoy yourself, at least turn over so I can pretend you are.”

She wasn’t given time to object. Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but her words were cut by Harry’s hands gripping her hips to turn her. “Wait,” she begged as he rolled her on her stomach. “Harry, wait, I need to—“

Pain ripped through her body when he filled her. She wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared, and Sansa cried out at the unexpected fire. He did not stop thrusting and ignored her protests. Harry was persistent, stinking of wine and muttering things about the North and how Saffron had pleased him more. She wept helplessly into the blankets. He was finished long before Sansa could find a comfortable position, but there wasn’t one, not when he’d violated her so carelessly. Harry said nothing as he passed out minutes later on their marriage bed, her blood on the sheets, and she felt empty. Sansa lie still for what felt like hours. She trembled when she tried to stand. She reached for her nightgown, a simple folded shift at the end of the bed, still feeling naked when she draped it over her. The image of Winterfell had been her rock, but a falcon had come and stolen it away.

When the midnight hour passed, Sansa slipped into bed at her husband’s side and ensured her back was facing him. She would not let him see her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a FUCKING BUMMER  
> Angst on the horizon. SORRY. I CAN'T HELP IT.  
> Tuesday's chapter might hurt more than this one. What can I say. I'm a cruel mistress. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> See you then! <3 As always, feedback is appreciated!


	4. The Heart Tree

The growing void between himself and Sansa was the only unplanned obstacle. It haunted his path to power like a wrathful ghost, and Petyr did not sleep well because of it. He had hidden from the wedding celebration to work ceaselessly, cementing the final steps of his plans, but even that small satisfaction did not bring him peace. Only emptiness. He slept restlessly and dreamt of nothing, and when he woke, he felt as though he’d risen from the grave. What kind of woman was Sansa to affect him this way? She had looked at him with those irresistible eyes, her mother’s eyes, but he didn’t think of Catelyn when he saw them anymore. Sansa, only Sansa. _“Would you have been kind?”_

Petyr rose from silk sheets, feeling uncharacteristically weary. He bathed and dressed as routine demanded, and when the first fingers of dawn touched the Eyrie, he was hard at work. He felt unrewarded. The successful union between Sansa and Harry should have sparked a smugness in him, knowing the dominoes had fallen in the right place, but it didn’t _feel_ right somewhere deep in his chest. Somewhere broken. Even Petyr would not traverse that inner waste, so he sealed those feelings away in the darkness. Sansa would not pierce his walls; he was determined on that front, at least.

Petyr scribbled away with ink and quill on a strip of fine paper, one among many. The carriers of his messages arrived not long after daybreak. His study was more akin to the tent of a battle commander than a solar, and while there was not yet a war, there was plenty to accomplish before the ships sailed for Pentos. He stayed busy for the sake of ambition and to keep his mind off the girl he’d given away. A plate of uneaten breakfast sat to his right side. Petyr ignored his growling stomach. Morning led to high noon, and when the last of many couriers came and went, he began drafting a final letter despite his cramping hand.

“You should eat that,” said Ser Lothor Brune. Petyr looked up as the knight entered the room. “Doesn’t do any good just sitting there.”

“In time.” Petyr dipped his quill in the inkwell and began writing again. “Is something the matter, Lothor? I thought you’d be overseeing the guards.”

“Lady Stark was looking for you last night, m’lord.” Lothor’s tone was sour. “She didn’t seem happy.”

Petyr’s quill paused for a moment, only a moment, before moving again. “She did her duty. Obviously the matter was not of immediate concern if you waited this long to bring it to my attention.”

“You ordered no one to disturb you last night, m’lord.”

 _Did I?_ Petyr sighed, irked by his momentary weakness. “Very good, then. I will see Lady Sansa when I am finished here.” He dipped the quill again. “Will you fetch her fool husband for me? I’ve need of him.”

“At once.” Ser Lothor obeyed and exited the study, leaving Petyr alone.

It was strangely uncomfortable to know that some green boy had been with Sansa in the most intimate way. Petyr felt like something had been stolen from him, which was absurd considering he’d _given_ her to her husband. It was a necessary step to achieving his goals. The feeling of loss was completely irrational, but that did not make it go away. Another regret to add to his hidden collection. Petyr paused his writing to consider what Sansa may have wanted from him, but it was hard to contemplate without feelings muddling the way. He pushed them aside to focus on drafting more orders; the lesser of two different pains.

“Lord Baelish,” said a voice from his open door. Harrold Arryn walked into his study, fatigue and nausea written on his face. Petyr was pleased to see it there. “You’re working hard, aren’t you?”

“The work does not wait,” Littlefinger replied with a grin. He stood from his desk and folded his hands in front of him. “One must start early to finish the race.”

Harry merely nodded. He walked around the solar, examining the countless books in their respective shelves and dragging his fingertips along the titles. _You have touched enough of my belongings._ Wanting him gone, Petyr stacked the important papers requiring a signature and crossed the room. “Here is what I summoned you for, my lord. Some instructions for running the Eyrie while you and Lady Arryn are away in Pentos.”

“That’s all there is?” Harry took the papers and lazily skimmed over them. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” Petyr lied. “When you’ve finished signing them, I will see that they find their intended destinations.”

Many of the orders were a slow drabble to keep Harry occupied, if a bit annoyed, but none of them were objectionable; a request for Lady Waynwood to oversee the Vale, authorization for the Eyrie's stewards to stock the winter food supply, potential marriage arrangements for lesser lords and ladies, and so on. Menial things. It was all very tedious, but among the orders Petyr was able to slip in items of a more personal interest. Harry began to read the first few. As expected, he eventually became bored and signed them one after the other. Littlefinger took the completed letters with a smirk of triumph. _How easy it is to manipulate fools._ He thanked Lord Arryn and had half a mind to let him leave, but another thought crept to the forefront of Petyr’s mind. “How was your wedding night?” he asked. “I’m told the bedding was examined?”

“It was,” said Harry. “In truth, I don’t really remember it. Drank too much wine. Alayne—I mean, Sansa—she’s something else. A spectacular beauty. But she didn’t want to speak to me this morning, can’t imagine why.”

Petyr didn’t like the sound of that. “Where is our lady now?”

“The godswood. She said something about wanting to pray.” Harry scratched his chin. “For someone who pretended to be her father, I thought you’d know that.”

“I’ve been quite busy with other matters,” said Petyr, narrowing his eyes in spite. “The Vale can’t run itself. I’ve yet to see her since the wedding.”

“Ah. Shame. Well, I’m sure she’ll make a good Lady Arryn for whatever it’s worth.” Harry eyed him skeptically. “Where were you last night? I remember your toast, then nothing.”

“Busy,” Petyr repeated. “I was—“

“Oh, nevermind. I’m not sure I care that much.” Harry patted him on the shoulder. It took an immense amount of self-control not to smack his hand away. “Until later, Baelish.” Lord Arryn left without another word, and Petyr released the aching hand that had been clenched in a fist.

He was too restless to stand there very long. Once his hand regained a feeling other than pain, he grabbed his winter cloak and left in search of Sansa. It was a relief to know that she'd consummated her marriage, but he wanted to see how she was handling it, how she was handling Harry. If her husband’s words were anything to go by, her reaction to intimacy was less than enthusiastic. _If he brought her harm,_ _I will take care of him myself. I’ve no room in my plans for Sansa’s sorrow._

The godswood of the Eyrie had no heart tree. Petyr was never one for religion, especially since youth taught him that the gods did not answer prayers, but Sansa still visited the so-called godswood regularly. A small smirk passed his lips at the memory of her, red-cheeked and freezing, when he helped her build a castle from sticks and snow. Petyr found her there again. She was sitting on a long stone bench, next to the place where her castle had once been. Her hair was a vibrant shade of auburn, sprinkled with falling snow and glowing in the afternoon light. Hers was an image more beautiful than a dream. _It seems Sansa is the heart tree here._

"Lady Arryn,” said Petyr as he approached her from behind, slipping on his unseen mask. “I'm told you were looking for me. Unfortunately I was entangled in important business. How are you enjoying married life?"

She looked at him. Her dismal expression brought a crack to his walls. Sansa was subdued, mournful even, and her strength was based in bitterness instead of pride. Petyr’s planned words fell from his lips to the point where he forgot them, and was left abandoned when she turned away. “Marriage is unkind,” she said.

His chest felt twisted. He dragged his tongue over his teeth, mulling over a reply. Petyr sat on the bench beside her and his voice fell low. “Did he hurt you?”

“What does it matter? I am the Lady of the Vale.” Sansa held her arms. “Everything happened as you wanted it to.”

“It was not my intention to have you harmed, Sansa.”

She scoffed. “I’m not sure you cared, so long as I married him.”

Petyr furrowed his brow, refusing to hide his profound irritation as this girl who’d seen so much of him and judged him wrongly. How could she believe her pain was his intent? If anything, it was an unfortunate possibility that he’d faced and weighed and considered before making the marriage contract at all. Sansa stood from her seat. She faced him with eyes that read of betrayal. “What do you really want, Petyr? Why did you come here?”

He frowned. Hers were good questions, questions that struck at the heart of the matter whether she realized it or not. Snowflakes fell on his skin as Petyr stood, reaching. He took her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and eyed her with surprising affection. He picked his words carefully. “I want many things, Sansa, and one of them is for you to be happy. Not the passing happiness of a day where you might forget your troubles, but _truly_  happy. Your family avenged and your home restored and your safety assured. Never would I wish you harm, for if I did, harm would have befallen you by now.”

Sansa averted her eyes. She seemed conflicted, so Petyr did not push her. Frail hands lifted to touch his wrist and guide his hand away. Once again, she shattered his expectations. Sansa took his hand in both of hers and softly moved her thumbs over his knuckles, a romantic gesture that puzzled him. “My pain is your doing,” she said, “but you don’t control Harry. You didn’t make him drink. Try as you like, you can’t move people without knowing there’s always a risk. You’ve told me as much.” Petyr’s composure was rattled. She continued before he could speak in his defense. “I am my mother’s daughter, I know you see that, but I am my father’s too. I value the truth. Nothing you could ever teach me will overwrite that. I want _honesty_ from you, Petyr, as much as you’re willing to give.” Sansa’s Tully eyes lifted to meet his. A fist in the gut. “Here is my truth; I have nothing in this world without you. My family is gone. My home is overrun with monsters and my husband has no love for me. There are hundreds of things I could ask you for, but…” Her words wavered, sweet as the woman who spoke them. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Sansa knew precisely where the seams of his skin were, knew how to untie them and spill his soul onto the floor. She drove him mad, drove him wild, but he’d always remained composed enough to hide her effects from the naked eye. Not today. Sansa had unmade him. Her gentleness took the shriveled heart in his chest and pumped something like life back into it, a dead thing that should have stayed buried. He pursed his lips. Perhaps allowing her to see him wouldn’t be such a bad idea, so long as it eased her obvious fears. Petyr drew a deep breath, resigning to gamble.

"Honesty? That is all you want?" He stepped closer, invading her space as he so often did, his fingers taking a strand of her hair between them. Petyr's eyes met hers. Fire burned bright in his gaze of gray-green, stoked by desire so raw she could choke on it. "Then I shall give you honesty. I left your wedding party because I didn't trust myself to keep calm after we spoke in your bedchamber. You've managed to find the space between me and the façade, Sansa, which few others have ever done. None of them managed to crack and pry it open like you do. If others had seen me looking at you after you'd knocked the mask askew, or saw my spite for Harry when I looked at him, it may have ruined everything. That is why I hid away, and agonized over every moment I knew that oaf would be touching you." Petyr lifted his hand, pulling hers up with it, and planted a kiss on her delicate skin. "I told you that you would not see kindness in my actions. I let last night happen as it did in order to see you through to the true happiness I know you long for. Nothing worth taking is ever free, and the cost is sometimes measured in pain rather than coin. This will not be the last time the blame for your suffering rests at my feet, but it is what must be done if your hopes, and my own, are to come to fruition. That is my honesty for you."

Petyr waited to see how the cards would fold. For many tense moments, Sansa stood under his gaze and searched him for any sign of a lie. Doubtless she would see how he craved her, searing at the surface. He didn’t know what else she would see. Petyr’s soul held so many dead things, Sansa was sure to see the waste. Would she see his ambitions, too? Would all his life’s work be spoiled in naught but a single glance?

Her eyes suddenly changed. _Danger,_ he read. _Fear._ She withdrew her hand from his, letting it hang. Petyr’s heart seized. She trembled and her breath became uneasy, as if she expected him to slit her throat then and there. “Lord Baelish,” came her whisper of departure. Like a rush of wind, she was gone.

Petyr watched her retreat as his hand sank down to his side. Once again he’d misjudged Sansa, but this time he hadn’t a clue how. She wanted his honesty and he’d given it, moreso than he had to anyone since... Catelyn, perhaps? And here history had repeated itself. A highborn lady with fire in her hair rejecting him when he was most vulnerable. Something about his honesty had pushed Sansa away. She seemed afraid of him. There had always been fear in her, a fear born of not knowing what he wanted, but had he not spoken the truth as she asked? Was it so hard for her to believe?

Petyr gathered his pain, the new pain and the old pain and the honesty and everything else that spilled. He shoved it back inside the carcass that might have been left behind. What was the Ironborn saying? What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. So it would be with the creature called Littlefinger, the shell worn by Petyr to hide his weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He'd stepped outside of it in the vain hope that Sansa would accept him, but there he was, left only with a dead godswood for company. Sunlight fell on his shoulders, but he felt winter’s chill in his heart.

Pentos would not be kept waiting. When he turned to leave, Lord Baelish vowed to rebuild his walls so high that even Harren the Black would weep with envy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I DIDN'T LET UP ON THE ANGST  
> Wow, this chapter hurts me. Whoops.  
> This is the first chapter I've been entirely on my own as far as character checking. If Petyr seems off or whatever, please let me know I guess? I always worry about authenticity. I'm a perfectionist when I write, what can I say. I'd love to hear from you!  
> See you Saturday my dears <3 *dances away on the hell-ship train*


	5. Carefully-Laid Plan

Harry’s snores drowned out the sound of ocean waves. Sansa tried sleeping in different positions, her head under multiple pillows and blankets, but no matter what she tried his volume disrupted her. She groaned and pushed back the covers to glare at her unruly husband. He was shirtless with his mouth agape, looking like the idiot she saw him as. Sansa tentatively reached over to close his mouth without waking him, but Harry merely stirred and rolled over, continuing to snore. There would be no rest for her, it seemed. Another sleepless night. Her only true desire was to be away from him. Sansa crept over Harry’s sleeping frame and slipped on a robe when she met the cabin floor, and stepped out into the hull in search of solitude.

The _Falcon’s Wing_ was a large ship, a two-masted schooner with sails of blue and gray silk. Sansa admired everything about it, from the intricacies of the woodwork to the labor of the seamen. Something about sailing relaxed her. Surrounded by the glittering ocean, it was hard to stay wallowed in grief. Her time with Harry left her dejected, his greedy hands barely leaving her when they retired for the night, but while he slept there was time for reflection without him. Time to feel whole again. Perhaps that was the greatest gift the _Falcon's Wing_ could give her; peace.

Sansa padded barefoot along the open deck, eyes cast to the fading sunset on a gold and navy skyline. Darkness swallowed the clouds and stars sparkled overhead like jewels. Sansa closed her eyes, taking the salt sea air into her lungs and the wind through her messy curls. There was harmony at sea, sweeter than any song. She thought of Petyr’s words in King’s Landing. “I always wanted a ship,” he’d told her. Now she could see why. Sansa opened her eyes again and walked to a crate by the railing, ignoring the confused stares of late-working sailors, none of whom thought they’d catch a glimpse of the Lady Arryn at this hour. Sansa climbed atop her wooden perch and hugged her knees close, toying with her wedding ring. Maybe if she prayed hard enough, mercy could accompany the peace she’d found.

“You shouldn’t sit up there, m’lady.” Sansa recognized the voice of Ser Lothor Brune, and did not turn to face him. “If we hit a reef, you’ll fall overboard.”

“Maybe I will.” Sansa sighed. “That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”

“Lord Baelish would have my head.”

 _Would he?_ Thinking about Petyr made her heart sink. How foolish she’d been, to see him as nothing but himself and run away in fear. Sansa pulled her legs closer. “Will you sit with me, then? Maybe you could catch me if I fall.”

Lothor paused. She didn’t hear him move at first, but after several seconds he heeded her request. The massive knight pulled up a barrel and sat across from her. He was unreasonably tall, not ugly like the Hound had been, but just as gentle. She felt reassured by his presence and offered him a smile of gratitude. Lothor returned it earnestly.

“Is Harry snoring again?” asked the knight. He offered her a mug. Sansa knew what it contained, and took the fertility tea in hand.

“Does he ever stop? It’s much too loud.” She took a long drink, grateful the tea didn’t taste like bile. “He can’t stop once he’s started either, especially when he’s drunk.”

"I used to think it was bad standing guard at his door all night,” said Lothor. “Can’t imagine how you feel. Must sound like a great big horn in your ear.”

Sansa chuckled. It was small, a shadow of her happier self, but still a chuckle all the same. She swirled the liquid in her cup. She paused and watched it move with the slow tilt and turn of the ship, and Sansa’s mind wandered back to Petyr against her will. Thoughts of him would not stop haunting her. “Ser Lothor?” she asked. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something since we left the Eyrie. Something important.” She rested back against the wall of the captain’s quarters, trying to settle her nerves. “You’ve been Lord Baelish’s man for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Aye,” he said. “A few years now.”

“Do you…” She bit her lip. “Do you keep council with him?”

“The man doesn’t have many friends, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I suppose he doesn’t.” Sansa drummed her fingers along the side of the cup. Her voice fell quiet, meek. “Do you think he hates me?”

“ _Hates_ you?” Lothor outright laughed, so sudden he frightened a nearby sailor. “Seven hells, girl. Are you soft in the head?”

“That’s not polite, ser,” she scolded. “Petyr didn’t even see us off. He barely spoke to me in the days before we left. He’s never been like that. Not once.”

Lothor shook his head. “You know him. How he is. If he hated you, Lady Stark, you’d be dead in the ground by now.”

 _That’s certainly true_. Sansa finished her tea, fidgeting with her fingers as she tried to work out the possibilities. It didn’t feel right, the way her and Petyr had left things. So much remained unsaid. Poison in the air. Lothor must have seen the darkness in her eyes, for he leaned closer, concern written in the lines on his face. Sansa felt her sigh tremble. “I made a mistake,” she told him. “I think I’ve ruined everything.”

Lothor Brune was no fool. If he’d kept council with Petyr for years, been a part of his most dangerous schemes, then surely he knew the ties between the wolf and the mockingbird were stronger than they seemed. The knight breathed out through his nose. “You’ve a tender heart, m’lady. Baelish’s business runs in breaking tender hearts.”

“But it’s different with me. It’s always been different, _he’s_ different. He—“ Sansa chewed her lower lip. Her throat began to tighten. “I think _I_ broke _him_.”

“And how did you manage to do that?” asked Lothor. “He’s not a man who breaks.”

“I was afraid of him.” Sansa stared down into the cup, ashamed. “His eyes…I could see every desire he’s ever had. Maybe not what lurks deepest, but I could see his desires for me. So many of them in one stare. And I was—I was frightened, I was…” Her voice cracked. Sansa looked up to the rising moon, hoping he would not see the glisten in her eyes. “He gave me the truth and I ran from him.”

“Now you think he hates you.” Lothor cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but he did not refuse her need for guidance. “You’re not dead or dying. You’re the Lady of the Vale and he sent _me_ to personally oversee your time in Pentos. He gave you the fastest ship in the fleet.” Lothor scratched his chin. “I’m no expert, m’lady, but that doesn’t sound like hatred to me.”

Sansa fell deep in thought. Lothor’s small list of reasons seemed meaningless compared to Petyr’s recent behavior, but they did not lack merit. Why send her with the captain of the guard? Petyr had business in Pentos, didn’t he? Did it have something to do with her? A week had passed since their departure from the Vale, yet already Sansa found more questions for a mentor who gave nothing but silence. _It’s all my fault. I could have known his plan, but I ruined it with my stupid fear. I ruined everything._

“I should get some sleep.” Sansa extended her legs and slipped off the crate she’d been sitting on, wanting nothing more than to put her troubled mind to rest. The sorrow had returned. “Is there another cabin I can sleep in? Or a hammock, maybe?”

“Don’t think a hammock’s a place for a lady,” said the knight.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to be with Harry longer than I have to.” Sansa’s sweet face turned sour. He reflected her frown. “I’ll sleep on the floor if I must.”

Lothor sighed heavily, a sigh of submission. “Gods, you’re a persistent one. You’re learning from Littlefinger. Take my bed. I’ll find a hammock.” He gestured with his chin to the stairs leading below deck. “Go on. We’ll reach Pentos tomorrow, you’ll want your strength. Your lord husband wants to see the city and—“

“—‘all the beauties within it,’” Sansa finished for him. She chuckled humorlessly. “I remember. Thank you, ser. I’d appreciate your cabin for the night.”

“Third door on the left. Goodnight, Lady Stark.”

“Goodnight.”

Sansa left the tranquility of open sea in exchange for a bed to lie in. She found Ser Lothor’s cabin and curled up atop the blankets. Sleep came quickly, and for the first night in many she had a bed to herself without a trace of her husband’s hands to touch her.

  


 

The Free City of Pentos was as wonderful as she’d hoped. Since her arrival three days past, Sansa had been a guest in every merchant lord’s home and attended several exquisite parties. Lord and Lady Arryn were popular among the people, two powerful Westerosi come to spend their honeymoon in a foreign land. Even the Prince of Pentos offered his time to speak with them, visiting them personally in the small manse he'd let them occupy. Bright tapestries, sweet incense, magnificent gowns and jewelry alongside the richest foods she’d ever tried; Sansa felt like a queen. But even queens suffered, she knew that to be true, and Pentos would not see her suffering end.

Days of women and wine did not slake Harry’s lust. He took Sansa every night, ignoring her whimpers and riding her like a horse until he was through. She found no pleasure in his touch. Each time he took her, a piece of herself slipped away. It shouldn’t have been so easy. Sansa was supposed to make him his, make him see, but Harry was rarely sober when he stumbled into bed and she knew better than to argue with drunken men. She obeyed. She waited. She tolerated what he put her through, the unpleasant nights and frustrating days, until the morning brought her moonblood and the horror that came with it. The fertility tea hadn’t worked. Weeks of suffering had been in vain. Tears were her only company when Harry deemed her unfit to leave the manse, and Sansa hoped Petyr would come soon enough for her to apologize. _I’d slap him if I had any sense,_ she thought, _but I’m certain I’ve lost my mind._

Sansa lay in bed after a long day of nothing, glancing over to the empty space by her side. Harry had not returned. He was said to have taken his men out for a night of drinking and lechery, but hours had passed since sundown and Lord Arryn was nowhere to be seen. She tried to sleep without him near, without his blasted snoring, yet she couldn’t stop her aggravating worry. Sansa _needed_ Harry. Needed his child, his affection, or enough of it to be able to ease her burdens and convince him to march North. Sansa rolled over on the featherbed and tried to push the thoughts from her mind. It wouldn’t do any good to hope for promises he’d yet to make, but they would not be made at all if he wasn’t alive to swear them.

She heard a noise. A slam against the wall, followed by laughter. She lifted her head and climbed out from under the blankets. “Harry?” Traces of fear trickled down her spine. Sansa lit a candle and carried it with her when she approached the bedroom door, opening it. “Harry, is that you?”

The laughter grew louder when she stepped into the hallway. Sansa followed the noise to the open foyer, dimly lit by dying candles and lanterns. Her drunken husband stood in the center of the room with a smug grin, groping the hips of a whore. A _wealthy_ whore. Her skin was dark, rich, and what little clothing she had was dotted with gems and gold. The woman turned at the sight of Sansa’s candle. Dark braids swirled when she moved, and a smile crossed lips thicker than any Sansa had ever seen. “Is this Lady Arryn?” asked the woman with a playful smile. “My, my. She is very beautiful.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Harry sneered at his wife. “Too bad she’s bleeding, otherwise I’d ask her to join us.”

Sansa’s temper flared. It was enough pain to know she’d yet to take seed, but to be mocked so openly was salt in the wound. She did not marry Joffrey. Sansa slammed the candle on a nearby table and crossed the room. The whore backed away before the palm of Sansa’s hand _smacked_ across Harry’s cheek so loudly that it echoed, and he stumbled. Harry touched his face where she'd struck him, staring at her with his mouth open as if she’d turned into a beast he could not slay. Perhaps that’s what she was. Sansa no longer cared.

“The Vale shouldn’t suffer someone like you,” she said fiercely. “I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am not some bastard girl you can use at your leisure. I am _not_ someone to be mocked or humiliated, and I won’t share a bed with a man who takes other women when he gets tired of me.”

“At least the girls here appreciate my company,” her husband spat, entitled as ever. He straightened his posture and acted as though he hadn’t just been slapped. “I’m the Lord of the Vale. Women would line up to be in your shoes. To be pleased by me.”

“Perhaps, but you lack the grace to please a woman. I should know. Whores are paid to fake it, _my dear_ , and you pay plenty.”

“Is something wrong, m’lord?” Three of Harry’s guard stepped into the foyer, armed but not armored. Sansa turned to observe them. _The noise must have woken the house._ Sansa drew a deep breath and tried to remember who she was—an actress with a part to play in a show she never wanted. Anger would not suit her now, despite how wonderful it felt.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, sers. I was just scolding Lord Arryn like the boy he is.” Sansa glared at Harry before marching over to a cloak by the manor entrance, one she’d worn two days past. She retrieved a small purse and counted five gold Pentoshi coins, a generous offer, and approached the dark beauty on the other side of the room. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said Sansa. “Please, take this as compensation. My husband won’t bother you again.”

The woman looked at her with eyes that read only of amusement. A familiar look, one she’d seen so many times. She tapped her finger under Sansa’s chin and leaned close to speak cryptically. “Not much longer, sweetling,” she whispered. “It will all be over soon.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. The whore’s smile grew wider as she took the coins and placed them back in Sansa’s palm, along with something else. Something cold. She moved away, taking all the beauty in the room with her and snatching Harry by the arm. He did not look at Sansa when they left. She could hear them talking about sexual perversions and other unrelated things, even as the door closed behind them. Their words faded to nothing. When Sansa opened her hand to count the coins, a small vial of blue liquid rested in her hand.

“Lady Arryn?” said one of the knights. He approached her with care. “Should we escort you back to your chambers?”

“No. I’m alright on my own.” Sansa moved past the three soldiers and clutched the vial in her fist. She fought back tears when she entered her room again, leaning against the door, feeling more hopeless than she had since King’s Landing held her prisoner. Petyr was playing his games with her. A present from one of his whores, mysterious words meant in sick assurance. She wanted to break the vial and curse at him, to scream and lay her pain at his feet, but the look of pure heartbreak in his eyes was stained on her memory. Sansa slid to the floor and wept as realization fell upon her. She was only a piece on the board now, a means to an end, and if Sansa wanted to flee the game she would have to win or be taken. Playing Petyr was a dangerous task, but what other options remained?

Sansa crawled back into bed. She placed the vial beside the Tully brooch on a sidetable, and fell asleep wondering why she bothered to keep either of them. Two tokens of her own defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. I did the angst thing again. But I figured I had to patch up a small plot hole, so this chapter ended up being more filler than anything. I still hope it's to your liking!  
> TUESDAY, LADIES AND GENTS. Tuesday is when things change. Stay tuned, you won't want to miss it. <3 I finally pull my head out of my masochistic asshole and give you some quality content. PROMISE.  
> 'Till then! *sprinkles glitter on your crops*


	6. Her Gift of Fragility

When his ship docked at the port of Pentos, Petyr did not feel accomplished. Cawing seagulls and a busy harbor would have put him in a better mood, once. A mood for negotiations. Despite what many lords of the Vale believed, Petyr _did_ have business in the city, important matters of delicate nature that needed to be dealt with. But there was a method to his madness, far from visible to those who looked and even farther from those who looked closely. He hoped that with time and passing transactions, he could deceive the disbelievers and feel like Littlefinger again. It wouldn’t be long before he won. Arrogance would be his shield, as it had always been.

The satisfaction of a game well-played had yet to sink in. It was blocked by a heart tree made flesh. Sansa was a part of everything he did whether she knew it or not, and the possibility of his goals being tainted with fear soured the spoils. He _craved_ her approval, needed it to breathe, but it was no longer his to exploit. Her marriage to Harry had likely ruined the willingness she’d once shared with him. Sansa’s consent was as much his goal as any, and he would have it no matter the cost.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Petyr had found his final destination. The apartments were quite small. Comfortable and well-decorated, the height of Pentoshi architecture, but small. Petyr had expected Mayana to take better advantage of the pay he’d given her over so many years, but it seemed she was doing other things with her coin. It did not worry him. He stepped across the open threshold when two servants offered him entrance, and Petyr thanked them when he was brought a goblet of wine. Erotic paintings lined plum-colored walls and dark shutters obstructed the moonlight. He stood in the candlelit foyer and placed his cup on the table. He did not have a thirst, not for liquor at least, and he wanted his wits to remain unclouded. His work here was too important for anything else.

“Lord Baelish,” came a sultry voice. Petyr turned. She was standing at the mouth of the hallway, barely clothed and smelling of perfume. She was just as he remembered. Tall, dark, beautiful. A grin passed his lips as she walked to him. “I never thought I would see you again.”

“Mayana,” said Littlefinger, taking her hand and kissing it. “Indeed, neither did I. Yet here we are.”

“Here we are.” She pulled her many braids over one shoulder. Golden bells and bracelets jingled together when she moved. “Out,” she said to the servants. “Lord Baelish and I have much to discuss, and nothing meant for you.” The two bystanders fled the room on her order, and Mayana gestured to a plush couch for him to sit on. Petyr did so, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. His respect for her was why she remained the best candidate for the job he offered. Business had finally begun.

“I trust our Young Falcon has not been difficult?” said Littlefinger with a knowing smirk.

“Not at all. The boy is young and feisty. He will not want his red-haired beauty anymore. I have spoiled him.” Mayana reached over and took a long drink from the goblet Petyr had been given. She was never one to ask for things, which made working with her so exquisite. She took what she wanted when it was smart to do so. Not unlike him.

“Spoiled?” asked Littlefinger. “How so?”

“It is nothing you did not see when I worked for you, my lord. Old tricks.” She chuckled darkly. “I daresay he will return again tonight.”

Petyr furrowed his brow. “Seeing him nightly was not a part of the plan.”

“No? It does not matter. I have him wrapped around my little finger.” Mayana rested her arm on the back of the settee, eyeing him with a spark of mischief. “Now is your time to strike. The Arryn boy will leave his pretty wife alone if I am here to distract him.”

“Not yet.” Petyr shook his head, firm on the subject. “There was a miscalculation in her cycle. She has to share his bed. It must be believable.”

“She has been bloodless for three days,” informed Mayana. “You are wasting time. She suffers.”

 _Good,_ he almost thought. Almost. “Harry is not a generous boy. I did not intend her pain, but it is a means to an end.”

“You cannot fool me, Lord Baelish. I know what you came here for.” Mayana placed the goblet atop the table and scooted closer to her former employer. He was always pleased by her forwardness, and now she had intrigued him. How could she possibly know what he wanted? “I delivered the tonic, but I do not know what she has done with it. She refuses to leave the manse. That does not bode well for you. A sad girl is not a willing girl.”

“A sad girl is not stupid, either. Not her.” Littlefinger folded his hands in his lap, a clear gesture of impatience. “Am I paying you for advice, Mayana, or to do as I ask?”

“You should pay me for both.” She stood from the sofa, see-through silks from her gown trailing on the floor. She moved gracefully to the window and tested the shutters, seemingly satisfied with how tightly they closed. “When should I take him? I have a soft spot in my heart for women, my lord, and he talks about her silence and tears. You did not mean to break her, did you?”

“Of course not,” replied Petyr casually, though the news troubled him. How far had Harry gone? “You know me, Mayana. I would risk everything to get what I want.”

“Even the heart of a girl?” She raised her brow at him. “A girl you love?”

He chuckled softly. A method of defense. “The only person I love is me,” he assured, uncertain if it was the truth. “The rest is of no concern to you.” Littlefinger stood, brushing out the wrinkles in his tunic. “Take the boy in three days’ time and alert me when he’s here. You’ll have your pay when the deed is done.”

“So I shall.” Mayana opened a drawer underneath an erotic sculpture, retrieving a glass vial of cerulean liquid. “Take this. In case she has lost the last one.”

“Three drops?” he asked, taking it for examination.

“Three drops. With water only. No wine.”

“Lady Arryn doesn’t like the taste of liquor. There should be no problem.” Petyr pocketed the substance and placed both his hands on Mayana’s shoulders. Meaningless gratitude would help his effort to keep her silent. “You do me proud, my lady. I am humbled to have seen you come so far.”

“As you should be.” She placed a friendly kiss to his cheek. “The last time I helped you win this girl, you killed a king. Now you will ruin an ancient bloodline. As repulsive as your methods are, perhaps you can make her happy. I hope you get what you want.”

Petyr removed his hands from Mayana, turning to leave her den. “As do I, my dear. As do I.”

  


 

He shouldn’t have come. Sansa would be expecting him, waiting for someone to rescue her from the supposed hell in which she lived. Petyr should resist, he knew he should, but staying away from Sansa was an unexplainable problem. He’d kept his hands off of whores in his employ, kept celibate for many years in hopes of achieving her love, but not even sexual need had driven him here. Something far more troubling moved Petyr, deeper than the desire he craved her with. Petyr walked to the manse’s arched doorway and entered without announcement, pretending as though his heart wasn’t rampant in his chest. It felt like years since he’d seen her last. What sorry state would he find her in?

Ser Lothor Brune was not far inside. He stood guard at the end of a twisted hallway, arms folded across his chest with a frown on his lips. Petyr was prepared to greet him and ask for Lady Arryn’s whereabouts, but the knight jerked a thumb toward the door he was standing beside. He offered no explanation. Lothor knew they would need privacy. Petyr took a small breath and gave the knight a nod of acknowledgment, taking the doorknob and twisting. He stepped into the room without a sound.

Petyr found her sitting in a chair by the window. A book rested in her lap, but she was not reading. It was obvious that Harry had not treated her kindly. A faded handprint on her arm, spilled wine in a spattered shape on her gown. It was not a sight that pleased his eyes, nor a thought that warmed his heart. Sansa stared through the stained glass to where the sea met the horizon, and as much as Petyr wanted to feign indifference, her beauty still struck him. Her hair was down, just the way he liked it, tendrils of Tully red spilling down her back. Her dress was a light pink shade, arms exposed in Pentoshi fashion. She was _beautiful._ If he wasn’t insistent on speaking with her, he’d be content to leave her alone and keep the image pure, but the game of thrones demanded a move. He tempered his sympathy with the cold memory of rejection.

“Lady Arryn,” said Littlefinger, bowing respectfully. Sansa turned her head to look at him.

“Petyr!” Sansa jumped from her chair and set the book on the table, but her joy fell quickly, remembering their last encounter. Her initial excitement was expected, he supposed. Petyr had never treated her harshly. He was a welcome sight, but her body language said it all. The fading smile, the downcast eyes, the way her hands wrung nervously. She was a wreck. And she was playing him.

“I came expecting Lord Arryn,” Pertyr lied. He straightened his back and replaced all concern with an arrogant smirk. “My business in the city is near completion. I thought I might speak with him to discuss what I’ve accomplished.”

Sansa’s frown deepened. “My husband is not here,” she told him. “We fought this morning. He left. If you’re searching for him, I’d suggest looking in a tavern or brothel. He likes those places best.” Sansa cautiously approached him, crossing the room one timid step after another. Each advance was a hazard. “Would you not speak with me instead? Or have I earned your contempt already?”

 _She’s trying to manipulate me. I let her see behind the mask, and now she uses it as a weapon._ He clasped his hands behind his back. Even now, there was temptation to reach out and touch her. “No,” said Petyr flatly. “If Lord Arryn is not here, I shall let you return to your book. Escapism can be quite attractive when all we have in the world is gone.”

“I wasn’t reading it. Not really.” Sansa gestured carelessly to the book behind her. “Just a tome about Pentoshi government. Nothing too interesting.”

“All the same, I shall search for your lord husband.” His smirk grew. “Perhaps I will join him. I hear the brothels are irresistible.” With a turn of his shoulders, Petyr made to leave. His hand reached for the door to escape her presence, but Sansa’s soft voice called him back.

“Petyr,” she begged. “Wait. Please.”

He paused. Every instinct in the game told him to leave, to put Sansa Stark behind him and never look back, but she was too deep in his soul to simply purge her by walking away. Petyr lowered his hand and faced her. She had gained her extra minute of his time, and he hoped she used it wisely.

“Before you go, can I apologize? Explain myself?” Sansa came closer to him, still several feet away. “Then you can leave, I promise. You don’t even have to return. Not ever.”

 _Not ever?_ Now, that was tempting. How sweet it would be, to be rid of her and move on before she swallowed what remained of him. But before he realized his actions, Petyr moved closer to her. He stopped with his hands clasped behind him. He couldn't resist playing this game with her, even knowing he was already at a disadvantage.

“You wish to explain?” He nodded, expression neutral. “Make it quick. I’ve business to conclude, my lady, very time-sensitive.” He met her eyes, wondering if she knew how honest that statement was.

Petyr saw relief in her. He prepared himself. Sansa was skilled at the game, but did she know how _easy_ it was for her to get under his skin? To burrow where nothing ought to be, spreading her sickness through his flesh?

Sansa took another step. Meeting his eyes, she spoke.

“That morning in the godswood, I saw nothing but hunger in you and it frightened me. I felt like an object, like something you craved rather than some _one_ , an image of my mother instead of Sansa Stark. In your eyes I saw things you've never done to me but wanted to. You _want_ me, I know it. I don't know what for or why, but never have I seen desire so dominant, and so  _many_  desires in a single stare. Not even Joffrey had that look, not Cersei or anyone else who hurt me before. And somehow I thought you would be like them, even though you never have been. How could you not? Everyone who wanted me for their own gain abused me like I was nothing. It hasn't stopped, Petyr! Even my husband, he takes me like a whore and falls asleep right after, and I drink my tea and pray that somehow his child can bring me home again.”

He saw her tears before they fell. There was no game-player in her anymore. She’d flipped the table and scattered the pieces. Sansa closed the distance between them, inches apart, and his breath nearly stopped. “'You've managed to find the space between me and the façade.' That’s what you said, I remember. I will not forget it. Not even if you kill me. But should it come to that, should you consider your ambitions above whatever affection you ever had for me, consider this a parting gift.”

Sansa cupped his cheek with a trembling hand, placing a kiss to the other. Petyr’s heart shivered. She lingered a fleck of a moment too long, and then she retreated to the balcony, her back facing him. The only sound in the room was the ocean’s gentle waves.

Petyr was left grasping for a foothold. The hands behind his back were clenched to the point of pain. They mirrored what Petyr was feeling; everything was held tight, but something was surely broken. When had it snapped? When she spoke of her hateful unions with Harry? When her tears began to fall? When she touched his cheek? When she kissed the other? Perhaps all of her words brought new cracks in his walls, the very thing he never wanted. Perhaps the damn things had already crumbled and he simply refused to admit it. She was Aegon the Conquerer to his Harren the Black, demolishing his defenses. Sansa was waiting for him to abandon her. His hands slowly released from their tension behind him, and he began his path forward. A final test.

"Yes,” he said carefully. “I desire you. Not as an object. Once, perhaps, but no more. Joffrey, Cersei, Harry, all are fools who saw you as something to be used. You saw more in my eyes because there  _is_  more there." He took one step toward her, then another, slow and heavy. She did not turn to face him. “I was drawn to you because you looked so like your mother, I cannot deny it. You were a pale reflection of a candle, but you've become more. A fire, an inferno, the sun. I loved her and she rejected me. You did the same." His voice shook as he avoided saying the words directly, but the implication screamed aloud. He moved closer and closer until there were no more steps to take. He could see the goosebumps on her arms and knew she felt him there, inches away from her. Too long had he resisted. Peytr took her by the waist and pulled her flush against him. Eager hands slid around her, gripping her tight. He was certain Sansa could feel his heartbeat in her spine. Petyr’s left hand slid up the front of her body, over a flat stomach and curved breasts to take her neck in his grasp. He did not squeeze. His thumb brushed along her jawline as his lips met her ear, and when he spoke, his voice was raw.

“I can’t kill you, Sansa. _Fuck_ my ambitions. Never offer me a parting gift again, and I won't leave you alone here."

She sank back against him. Petyr could hear her shuddered sigh and the smile on her lips, and he knew he’d won; or had she? Sansa touched his hand and nuzzled the side of his face with affection. “No more parting gifts,” she whispered. “I promise, I promise.”

Sansa sent a chill down his spine. How long had he hungered for such sweet words? She was finally, willingly, his. Even in this success he was coming apart at the seams, an intoxication he was not prepared to feel. Sansa melting in his arms unraveled him. His lips were everywhere they could reach, her temple, her cheeks, her sweet-smelling hair, and she tilted her head to the side to invite him. He chuckled into her skin as she cringed, tickled by the hair on his face when he kissed her pulse. She fell so sweetly into his embrace as if she belonged there, and Petyr knew she did. Who else could enthrall him so deeply?

Sansa turned in his arms. Petyr felt a profound loss, but it dissipated as he realized she was there to stay. She faced him, fingers toying with the silver mockingbird at his throat. His hands gripped her hips as they met. Petyr tried to tame the rapacious fire that flared inside him, knowing there would be time to feed those flames later. Her presence was all he needed for now, and he had her in his grasp.

“What about my husband?” asked Sansa. “We can’t do this behind his back. He’ll know. He hates you.”

"You needn't worry about Harry anymore. I said I would not subject you to his attentions for long, didn't I?” Petyr nearly added more, nearly told her how this had always been the plan, but instead he left her wondering. "He will never hurt you again, Sansa. This I promise you." He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, drinking in the dual bliss of having her and knowing his promise would be fulfilled in days. Petyr lifted his hands to cup her cheeks. He pulled her face close and whispered teasingly against her open mouth. “Not much longer, sweetling. It will all be over soon.”

With a devilish grin, he pulled away. Petyr turned to the open door, drunk on the vision of Sansa gasping, feeling more victorious than the conqueror who'd overthrown him.

He left her there. He did not return for three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOOO  
> AHH this chapter FILLS me man, good shit good shit  
> Are you starting to figure out the plan yet? This beast has got all sorts of truth bombs. What a mess. I'M A MESS.  
> Saturday's update will be **b a n g i n '**  
>  See ya soon, sweetlings! <3 Oh, also, I hope you don't mind the addition of Mayana. I kinda just made her up on the fly for this fic, but she's pretty rad imo??? The series needs more badass women of color, what can I say. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Ah, the more I think about it, the more self-conscious I've become about this chapter. I hope Petyr seems in-character enough! I try to go for a mix of both book and show characters when writing them, so...idk. I did what felt right.


	7. Be Kind

It was dawn before she heard the news. One of the many Knights of the Vale came rushing to a halt before the long table, where Sansa was breaking her fast with Lothor Brune. He wore a worried look. She knew the fear; it was the same Septa Mordane had given her before the Lannisters killed her father’s household. "What's the matter?" Sansa asked. "What happened?"

"It’s Lord Arryn, my lady. He's gone missing."

 _"What?"_  Ser Lothor barked, his fork slamming down. "Who the hell was with him last?"

"He left for a brothel last night and never came back, ser. We searched for him throughout the night and all morning, but he's—we—“

"Agh, damn you.” Lothor angrily stood from his seat, a warm breakfast long forgotten. "Get all the men together and search the city, every whorehouse and tavern. Bloody idiot's likely gone and made an un-lordly mess of himself." Lothor took his helmet from the chair and turned to Sansa, awaiting her order. His eyes asked an impossible question:  _will you be alright without me?_  Sansa bit her lip. She didn’t know the answer, but her expression lied as she’d been taught. She nodded. Lothor ordered guards to watch each of the manse’s exits and left in pursuit of Harry, and Sansa sat with her uneaten meal, all appetite lost.

One day turned to two, and two to three. Sansa was writhing with apprehension. She had seen Petyr only once, quite briefly on the day Harry went missing, and not a single moment since then. Ser Lothor’s knights rotated their dutiful watch for Sansa’s safety, yet she didn’t feel safe at all. She felt trapped. Reading and sewing lost their attraction. She spent hours pacing, praying and pacing some more. Her husband wasn't kind, wasn’t honorable or gentle, but she never intended for Petyr to harm him. The thought that he might've had a role in Harry’s fate made her sick. The feeling worsened with a secret trace of relief, a mark of shame on her pure spirit.

The sun fell behind the sea on the third day. Fatigue took the best of her worry. Sansa blew out the candle and buried under soft blankets, trying to keep her troubling thoughts at bay. She lay in her bed, a bed once shared with Harry, and prayed he would return for the sake of the North. _For Winterfell. I can’t reclaim it without him._

After a long struggle, Sansa finally fell asleep. She dreamed of Winterfell, of her mother and father and a happiness long gone. She did not want to wake. It felt like only minutes had passed when morning came to revive her, the sun on her eyes, warmth on her face. She groaned and rolled over, content to sleep in as she had the previous morning, but the light only grew brighter. “Sansa,” said a voice. “Sweetling. I’ve returned.”

She woke. The touch on her face was real. Sansa opened her eyes to see Petyr sitting on the edge of her bed, his knuckles gently brushing her cheek. His mockingbird pin reflected the candlelight. “Did I take you from a dream?” he asked. “Apologies, my lady. I would not have done so if it wasn’t important.”

“Petyr,” she whispered, still half-asleep. She glanced to the balcony. Starlight dotted the night sky. “What time is it?”

“Past midnight. The hour is late.”

 _He’s here. On my bed. With me._ Sansa rubbed her face and sat up, the shoulder of her nightgown falling. She caught it before it exposed her. Petyr’s eyes held a spark of the same lust she’d fled from in the Eyrie, but it was restrained somehow, as if he’d taken her fear to heart. A cup of water rested in his other hand. Her eyes moved to his, uneasy. “What are you doing here?”

“Waking you,” he said with a chuckle. Petyr placed the goblet on the table beside her candle. “It is time to discuss the future, my dear. To reveal my plans to you.”

Sansa fell victim to his gaze. Her heart beat faster, watching the corners of his mouth rise in a devious smirk. She glanced over to the empty space beside her, absent of her snoring, foolish husband. “Harry,” she muttered. “Is it about him?” Her face fell. “Is he dead?”

“Harry is still missing, and the search continues. The Pentoshi are not as optimistic as we are, however. They say that no contact in three days means our Young Falcon likely ran afoul on less savory elements of the city.” His tone was frank, casual. “But I’m certain Harry is alive somewhere. We will find him if we can.”

His response was cryptic. She would not get the truth from him, not yet, but if Harry wasn’t dead he would be soon enough. Hadn’t Petyr told her as much? _“He will never hurt you again, Sansa.”_ She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, raising a barrier between herself and the man who lied to breed trust.

“You needn't worry yourself about that now. You are the Lady of the Vale, and the legacy of House Arryn must continue with you.” Petyr’s hand rested on the bed beside her feet. “In the likely event that Harry perishes here in Pentos, you must take his place.”

“Me?” Sansa frowned. “Ruling the _entire_ Vale?”

“You will not be alone, and on the rare occasion which you are, you will be strong without me. I will be there as much as I can.” He paused. “For you and your child.”

“I’m not pregnant,” she said. “I can’t be.”

“Yes. We are missing a piece of this puzzle, aren’t we?”

Petyr stared at her.

_Oh._

The pieces fell into place.

Sansa felt very small, like an ant under the foot of a giant. She bit her lower lip and pulled her knees closer, aching for protection, naked despite her shift. “You planned this,” she muttered. “All of it. Even before my wedding, didn't you? Since that night you called me to your room.”

He nodded, the ghost of a smirk still present on his lips. “The line of succession is frayed too thin. The lords of the Vale have no choice but to accept your heir as the next Warden of the East. The parentage will not be disputed. Bargains have been struck to assure it.”

Sansa sank back against the headboard as the corpses lined up in her mind. Joffrey, Marillion, Aunt Lysa, Harry; how many had he killed to bring her here? How many lives were destroyed for daring to stand in his way? As disgusted as Sansa felt, she was in awe of him, of a man who could manipulate people and time like he was a god. _Better not tell him that though, lest he believe it._

“You…” She cleared her throat. “You came here…came here to…” Sansa chewed her lip and fidgeted with her fingers. Petyr remained silent, not forcing her conclusion, yet neither did he encourage her escape. She could not look at him. Even with Petyr, even here, she had no desire for sexual intimacy. Not after what Harry had done. But if she didn't give herself, what were the consequences?

_"If everything goes to plan, you won't need to ask anyone outside this room for help. They will offer their assistance gladly and you need only accept.”_

Oh, what a fool she’d been.

“I'm not going to be used by you." Sansa's words were not spoken with malice, rather in fear that he would do the opposite. "You don't know what you're asking of me. A _family_ , Petyr. A  _child._ I won't let you use them for your own gain and I won't let you cast me aside after we…”

He chuckled, amused. “I have had hundreds and thousands of opportunities to take you against your will, my lady. That is not my desire. Nor has it ever been." Petyr leaned forward, placing a finger under her chin and lifting her eyes to meet his. “Think of everything I have done that confused you, all my plays in the game that seemed chaotic and without purpose. You couldn't see it then, but now? They were all meant to amalgamate in this moment, or one very much like it. If I simply wished to use you, why go through all the trouble to make you Lady of the Vale? If I only needed a child to manipulate for power, why remove Harry before he finished the job himself? You are smart enough to work this out. _You,_ Sansa, were what I wished to gain.”

Petyr removed his hand from her face. He reached out and swiped a hot dribble of wax from the candle, rolling it into a cooling ball between thumb and forefinger. Sansa’s eyes widened as his lip twitched from the pain. “I have never forced you to do anything, my lady. Pushed and convinced, yes, but never forced. This has not changed. Don’t you know how much I care for you?” He waited for her response. Sansa nodded, and he continued. “Neither you, nor a child of our union would be pieces in a game to me if I get what I want. Believe me, I know what I am asking of you. But if you refuse?” Petyr crushed the ball of wax and flicked it away. “I will not lay a hand on you, not unless you want it. If you say no and decide to accept the uncertain future that comes after, so be it. Know that I will not stop pursuing you, not until my last breath, but I will never share your bed unless you will it. That, Sansa, is what I’ve truly wanted from you after all.”

Sansa's eyes followed the wax on the floor. What would become of her if she  _did_  refuse? The Vale would scramble for another heir, or vote for which line would take over. A vote Petyr would corrupt. If he became Lord of the Vale, would he still have her for his own? Even if he didn't take the Eyrie, how could she escape him? He had spies everywhere. He  _owned_  people. _"I will not stop pursuing you, not until my last breath."_ Sansa may not be a pawn in his game, but she was being played like one. “What is the blue potion for?” Her voice faltered. “The one you gave me.”

“It encourages conception.” He picked up the vial and carefully poured three drops into the goblet of water. “The tea you were given at your wedding feast is useless, and I’m sorry you’ve been drinking it with high hopes. Supposedly, this tonic is the strongest fertility supplement in the world. Highborn ladies pay their weight in gold to have a small swallow.” Sansa watched the clear water fade to a deep blue, dark as night and ocean waves. Petyr capped the bottle and took the cup in his hands. He offered it to her.

Sansa straightened her back, determined for answers. She was not as naïve as he liked to think. “Why _not_ let Harry give me a child?”

Petyr chuckled, as if she should know. “I don’t fight those in power, Sansa. I fuck them. Consider this the foreplay.”

“What if I miscarry?” she asked. “What if the baby is stillborn?”

“You will not miscarry. I will arrange for you to have every maester in the Vale at your beck and call, the healthiest foods, the sweetest comforts. Every need you have will be attended to. As for a stillborn…” His expression turned suddenly vulnerable, sadder than she’d ever seen him. Melancholy took his eyes. “I wouldn’t think on such things. Logic says it is a possibility I must consider, but truly, Sansa? I do not think a woman like you could bring death into the world.”

Her heart cracked. Sansa was thrown by his sorrow, by his mask slipping away. Committing this act with Petyr would give her a family, security, the comfort of a lover, all things she’d wanted before but never had. Did he want them, too? Was she witnessing the aftermath of a life of destruction, one not so very different from her own? _Even when spilling his heart to me, he’s always playing the game._ She realized then that he would do anything for her. Kill for her. Lie for her. Die for her. Petyr may not have seen it in himself, but Sansa did when she looked in his soul.

Somehow, it was all she needed.

Sansa reached and gently took the goblet from him. He met her eyes as she drank the water in full. It was tasteless and went down without a hitch, and when she was done she placed the cup back on the table where it belonged. Her legs slid away from her chest and swung over the edge of the bed, bare feet pressing against the cold floor. She felt sick. Dizzy, overwhelmed. But there was something deeper too, an ache, a longing for what he offered. A promise to be loved, even in his strange way of loving. When Sansa searched her heart, she found the dry ink where he'd signed his name long ago.  _Petyr._  His signature would be there forever. So would he.

She stood on her feet. Sansa moved in front of him, watching the cold calculation in his eyes melt to a slow-burning flame. “Be kind,” she whispered.

Petyr’s sigh was small, yet sudden. Like a coil finding release after being wound too tight. He rose from the bed and came to her, their bodies inches apart, and she could hear the slight tremble in his breath. “I told you that you may not see kindness in my actions, but tonight you will, my love. And every night you desire it.”

Petyr reached for her. She inhaled, prepared for his touch, but he stopped before he made contact. He shook his head and smiled. Petyr ignored Sansa’s confusion and redirected his hands to unhook the mockingbird from his collar, setting it down beside the Tully brooch. _He’s undressing for me,_ she thought with a shudder. _Paving a path for me to follow._ Sansa bit her lip. The buttons of his tunic came undone one after the other, his hands moving without guidance as he kept his gaze locked with hers. Silk rustled as he tossed his clothes aside in a careless heap on the floor, tunic, shoes and breeches alike. He was all she saw. Petyr stood before her, shorn of all defenses as the gods made him. He was not heavily muscled, nor was he soft and doughy as many men became in their older years. His body, bearing a horrid scar running vertically along his chest, was not all that remarkable. Compared to Sansa's knightly husband, he was nothing to be considered desirable. But Sansa knew better. There was strength to his arms, a dexterity she could see just by looking at him. Black hair grew in the center of his chest, around where the scar began, but Sansa dare not look any lower. His nudity was a gesture of the kindness he’d promised, giving her control he'd normally be loathe to surrender. She would not return his favor with lewd action. Not yet, at least.

Eyes still chained to hers, Petyr gestured to her. “Your shift,” he said. His eyes were dark, words thick with need.

Sansa broke his gaze to lift shaking fingers to her collar. She was frightened and scared, but not  _of_  him, which was a foreign feeling. Sansa pulled the string at the top of her gown and pushed the fabric to the floor. Where Petyr was average, Sansa was not. Her shape was more like an hourglass than most Northern girls, and her skin was soft, pale and unblemished despite the countless beatings she'd endured. Her breasts were even and shapely, not too large or too small, and her hair framed the figure she'd been hiding all these years. Did she look like he imagined? Did she surpass some expectation within his rattled, magnificent mind? She wrung her hands and smiled shyly to him again, the light of the candle flickering like the final wall between them. One last breath and it would be gone for good.

She couldn’t stay still. Keeping him at arm’s length, Sansa’s fingertips traced delicately over his scar from collarbone to navel. It was a horrid thing, red and raw and rigid with past pain. A different encounter with a different Stark. She felt his muscles tense. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. Could he hear her? She could barely hear herself. “What my uncle did to you was needlessly cruel. It should never have happened, and I'm sorry.”

Sansa’s skin tingled when he touched her face, light as a feather, cupping her cheeks in his hands. Little room was left between them. The space was bridged by his hardened length pressing against her stomach. Sansa gasped to feel him there, ready to take her, to cross the finish line of this hard-won race. "Your apologies are kind," he said, “and I thank you for them. But I would leave the past aside and focus on the present, my dear. I hope you will not be upset if I take my time returning your kindness tonight.”

“I won’t be.” Sansa did not nod or verbalize consent. She let her eyes do the talking, and he responded in kind.

His thumb hooked under Sansa’s chin to gently tilt her head. He moved her hair away and planted his lips on the skin where neck met shoulder, sending waves through her every nerve. Soft kisses trailed along her pulse and her lips parted to release a sigh. His mouth spread fire through her veins. Petyr’s other hand rested on her hip, holding her tight and keeping her there, slowly introducing her to what intimate touch should be. She rested her hands on his shoulders and moved toward him when his lips met her cheek. Petyr’s hands slid up her back. There was safety in his arms, and he drew her closer as his mouth devoured hers in a fluid motion. Sansa barely reiterated his advance until the flames in him began to grow in her. Petyr cradled the back of her neck with an iron grip, gentle but firm as their lips moved together. Languid. Slow. It was strange to Sansa, that it took months of maneuvering and the deaths of their spouses to lead them here, to a place where they’d both yearned to be. Sansa knew it was a wholeness he’d gladly kill for. Perhaps she would too.

Petyr’s tongue slipped between her teeth. Her heart pounded when he gripped her tighter against his body, bare chests pressed together, his cock trapped between them. Sansa’s arms wrapped around his neck and he clutched the back of hers, holding her exactly where he wanted to deepen their heated kiss. Any words she may have said, he swallowed. He tasted of mint and desire. Sansa sighed as his fingers slid into her hair, a place she never knew to be sensitive, and his gentle tug at her roots pulled a moan from her mouth. Her head tipped back and he kissed her exposed throat, greedily moving to her chin and cheeks and lips again. She could feel his arousal against her, ever insistent as their kiss burned. Time seemed to stop. When Petyr finally pulled away, both of them were left gasping.

“Have you never been properly kissed?” he asked with a wicked smile.

Sansa shook her head. She blushed just looking at him.

“You’re still as shy as a maid.”

“That’s not bad, is it?”

Petyr softly laughed. He cupped her face and dipped her head, kissing her crown, suddenly quite paternal. “No. Not at all. I will drag you into the filth with me someday, though perhaps not tonight.” He took her hand and gestured to the bed. Sansa’s heart was beating so hard she feared it would rupture. She stepped toward the mattress, letting go of his hand to crawl atop the sheets and lay timidly on her back.

He was on her in seconds. Petyr was kind with his movements, as promised, but the lust in his eyes was beginning to seep through. He hovered over her, at her side, capturing another kiss with eager lips. Sansa was weak for him. She cupped his face and succumbed to his possession. He was all tongue and teeth, aged hands and heated skin, and when his mouth moved down her neck she was truly lost. His thumbs brushed over the peaks of her breasts and the first of many moans escaped her. Soft and light, like air. Petyr responded with a low laugh into her open mouth when he came up to kiss her again. “I like those sounds,” he told her. “I will have more of them.” His hand slid down the front of her body to her knees, which were held together on instinct. Her kneecaps were ticklish and she giggled at his touch. Watching her laugh made his face brighten, almost boyishly. Sansa felt her anxiety wash away at the sight, of a killer turned child when he looked at her. _He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?_ she thought without shame. _In his own unique way._

Petyr noticed her lack of fear, and when he guided her legs apart, she did not fight him. Sansa bit her lower lip as his fingertips glided down her inner thigh, caressing her, until he found her sex and touched her _there._ She gasped and leaned her head back when his motions became intentional, planned, and he stroked her until she was throbbing. Soaked with desire. Two fingers slid into her without warning and she whimpered, clutching his shoulder and the sheets with useless hands. Sansa could hear the wicked smile on his breath as he kissed down her chest, down her stomach and lower still. She almost asked what he was doing until his tongue met her center and Sansa whined, biting her lip to stay quiet. Oh, he was sinful. Petyr did not stop. His mouth moved with near expert practice, working her inside and out. His free hand pressed against the flat of her stomach to keep her in place, but Sansa did not want to go anywhere and instead rolled her hips into the strategic flicking of his tongue. He absorbed her. Sansa felt dizzy, on another plane of existence if such a thing were real, as if he’d taken her by the throat and dragged her through the sweetest of the seven hells. “Petyr,” she gasped. “Petyr stop, I’m—“

But he did not. Sansa clutched the sheets in the balls of her fist as pleasure made her body quake. Her carnal cries could not be withheld. Every nerve was shocked and tingled with whatever Petyr was giving her, an exquisite high that was slow to recede. He left her gasping and unable to think. She was panting when he removed his fingers from her and slipped them into her hair, pulling her close when he came up for a kiss. It was deep and demanding, tantalizingly sweet with the taste of him and her combined, but the pressure of his body was almost too much. She’d nearly forgotten that the purpose of their intimacy was to conceive. To have Petyr inside her, like Harry had been. She was still breathless when he settled between her legs. Sansa felt him, hot and heavy against her thigh, and some horrible feeling came to choke her.

Fear.

“Petyr, wait. Wait. _Please._ ” Sansa pushed desperately against his chest. He froze, and in a fraction of a second his lust disappeared. She covered her face with her hands, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Give me a moment, I’m sorry.” _Get over yourself, Sansa. You need this child. You need him._ Still, likely without intention, the motions had reminded her of Harry and tainted the moment. She was certain Petyr would be displeased, perhaps even cross, but her expectations were discarded when he kissed the top of her hands.

“A moment, two, three, as many as you need.” Petyr's voice was still deepened, but not insincere. Sansa slowly removed her hands from her cheeks in favor of his. His eyes read of honesty, and she accepted it gratefully. “You needn't apologize. I would wait a thousand years for you to be ready to have me.” He turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist, then pressed his cheek against her shaking hand. "You've no need for fear. When you're ready, my love, I will be kind.”

 _My love._ When had he started calling her that? Sansa felt loved by him now, even under the ruthless, rampant desire flooding those gray-green eyes. An even more frightening thought than Harry or Joffrey came to mind; Sansa  _wanted_  to be loved by him. She wanted to be cherished, to be his, to never be left alone in this world again.

Her hands began to steady. "Would you really wait a thousand years?"

"Only the chance of my wait being over tonight keeps me from proving those words true. And mortality, I suppose."

She chuckled at that. “But you owned a brothel. You could've had anyone without waiting at all. Why me, why now?”

Petyr's smile grew broader, a purer sort of amusement. He adjusted himself on hands and knees to stay comfortable as he hovered over her. “I owned more than one brothel. Women of every imaginable shape and color and temperament kept men coming through the doors. And some women too, my establishments passed no judgment. There were women who drove men to sell their lives away for a single night in their bed. Some of those same women tried to seduce me, seeking to curry favor, and I never touched a single one. So why am I here with you, now?" He paused again to kiss her cheek. When he pulled away, Sansa saw an immeasurable amount of vulnerability in his eyes, and its presence seemed to make him nervous. “I sought a woman who would make my cock quiver  _and_  my heart shiver. You first caught my eye, Sansa. Then you enthralled my mind, and how could you not after remaining strong in your circumstances? And finally you captured my heart once I saw that you could rise above the game, above being a pawn for anyone’s use. Even mine.” He stared down at her in silence for a long second, and Sansa’s lips parted. “The timing was never important to me, and I will continue to wait if I must. But why you? Oh, Sansa. There could be no one else.”

Petyr made her ache. Ache for intimacy, ache for him. Perhaps he could see it in her eyes, the way he ravaged that final barrier of fear. Who could love her more than this selfish man who considered her his equal? Who could love her as much as he loved himself?

She whispered his name. The sound was soft, shy, meek. Humbled by his rare declaration. Sansa lifted her head to kiss him and his lips tasted  _so much better_  now that she knew they were hers. She cupped his cheeks with utmost care, as if Petyr was glass far too precious for her to break. “We can survive this world together.”

And she kissed him again, content to never let go.

Their passion was given new life. New fire. Petyr kissed her hard and she whimpered into his mouth, providing the consent he seemed desperate for. The space between her legs became an uncomfortable throb that couldn't be sated by anything else but him, and it drove her mad. It wasn't until he guided himself inside her that Sansa stilled again, closing her eyes and gasping. It was bizarre at first, this pressure inside her that was not invasive or unwanted, but Petyr knew how to move when he began to do so. A slow thrust brought friction that made her sigh. She wrapped her arms lazily around his shoulders and moaned again with another push. When Sansa opened her eyes, she saw that same look. That insatiable, lustful hunger in his grey-green stare. No part of her would deny him. 

In, out. In, out. Much like the tide of the sea she loved. Petyr explored her with a calculation she'd come to admire, meticulous and greedy. Every move he made changed depending on her reaction, on her subtle notions of which places felt best. Not unlike the game that led them here. Petyr raked his nails up her side, not enough to bring pain but enough to leave a mark. Sansa arched her back when his hand slid into her hair and gripped again, claiming her mouth with his and drawing her pleasure on all fronts. Sansa rocked her hips against him as their speed increased. He growled something in her ear, something about how good she felt or how sweet she was. Sansa didn’t notice. The sound of his voice was enough to fill her. It was a weak spot, she'd discovered; the slow drape of nails and a hand on her scalp, the moans in her ear. Each thrust granted incredible pleasure and his groans drove her higher, a sound that would have frightened her hours ago. Sansa tried to keep quiet, keep her whimpers restrained behind a closed mouth until Petyr opened it again with his tongue and angled her hips the right way, and—

 _"Ah!"_  Sansa gasped, clutching his shoulder and the back of his head. Petyr knew he’d found the key and accommodated for her, hastening inside to a speed that would send her spiraling again. Sansa kept a desperate hold on him, parting her lips to sigh, his hands in her hair, on her body, everywhere she wanted them. He was taking mental notes, Sansa could tell by his eyes, the ones that never left her face. She managed to affectionately stroke his hair, just over the graying patch on the side of his temple, and his forehead touched hers before it became too much to bear. Petyr’s name fell from her lips, once, twice, and Sansa quivered as pleasure pulled her through the most sensational  _something_  she'd ever known. Her toes curled into the sheets. She cried out in the sweetest way, her muscles contracting, uncontrolled by an erratic mind. Her whole body tingled and was set ablaze, and Petyr did not stop, so neither did she. He slowed his movements when her high began to fall. She was panting and tired and trembling. Sansa cupped his face again in that fragile way, like he was glass, and lifted her head to kiss him. 

“Petyr,” she whispered. He smiled against her lips. “If this is kindness, your love will kill me.”

"I think not, my dear. You're stronger than you know." His voice was blatantly smug, amused and confident. “But we’re not done yet.” Petyr quickened his pace, seeking the perfect spot that had set Sansa near to wailing with approval. Her body responded despite exhaustion and she clung to him again.

Sansa had lost her mind. She kept his face between her hands, kissing him every so often and nuzzling him the next. Sansa watched his face as he had watched hers. Petyr was in control at first, but his body gave way to whatever sensation he felt and he buried his face in her neck with the rhythm of each push. His broken breaths made her smile; she was doing this for him, something not even the prettiest of his whores could dream of. Groans of ecstasy from Petyr vibrated through her neck and hair, and she felt pride when he said her name, _“Sansa.”_ She couldn't feel his release inside, but he held himself deep within to encourage what they’d set out to do. It was an emotional sensation on top of the physical; barely down from a high so powerful she'd nearly forgotten herself, yet here they were, trying to create life for the sake of a fatal lie. Petyr had destroyed one of the most ancient lines in Westerosi history just so he could manipulate her to be here, with him, just the way he wanted.

House Arryn would continue on with one of the greatest scandals of Littlefinger's legacy.

Sansa could breathe again when he finally pulled away. She was panting, already sore and so sweetly broken. Sansa took a moment to lay in peace and catch her breath. Petyr lay at her side, maskless and content. She felt lonely again already, watching him with his eyes elsewhere, already plotting his next move or reflecting on the one he'd just committed. She didn't know which. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

Cautiously, Sansa rolled on her side and snuggled up against his arm. She rested her head on his shoulder, giving him enough room to pull away if he so desired. She didn’t say a word. He'd told many lies in his life, so many that they might outweigh the truths, and Sansa couldn't deny that she was worried he would find a new goal. He was fickle like that. Everywhere and nowhere, present and in the shadows. It was entirely possible that he could be with her and abandon her, too.

Sansa laced her fingers with his between them. A gesture of innocence, but one that displayed her affection equally. To her relief, his chest shook with a light-hearted laugh and he reached for her. His free hand was placed just above her hip, keeping contact with her as he pulled his trapped arm free of her grasp. It returned to Sansa immediately, snaking under her and wrapping round her torso to pull her into his arms. Petyr rolled his head to the side and gave her a lazy smile. Her fears had been misplaced. The mask of Littlefinger lay forgotten for the moment, and Petyr Baelish was all that remained.

Sansa drifted to sleep with thoughts of happiness. If there were seven hells, surely there were seven heavens too, and he had shown her all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> Okay so like, I know it may seem hella weird that this is so ~romantic, but is it really? It's a fucked up situation, man. And Sansa always narrates things romantically, so I had her do that here, too. *throws hands in the air* WHO CARES, TAKE MY SMUT  
> See you Tuesday! <3 I hope you enjoyed my first shot at Petyr/Sansa bangin'. I'm always a slut for feedback.  
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧


	8. Choke on the Apple's Core

For the first time in decades, Petyr slept peacefully. He did not dream, as even the most tireless mind falls silent sometimes, but when he woke he felt well-rested and alive. Petyr stirred just before dawn. The bruise of a morning sunrise covered the sky, and he lay there with Sansa in his arms, watching. She was still asleep as the sun climbed over the tip of the horizon. He preferred it that way. It was relaxing to feel her curled up in his arms, sighing against his chest with her hair draped over his shoulder. Petyr kept a hand on her hip, the other toying with an auburn curl as daybreak came upon the world. There was work to be done. There always would be, and while he regretted leaving her before she had the chance to wake beside him, there were important matters that demanded his attention. _That doesn’t mean I can’t spare a moment._ He sighed into her hair and allowed himself time to hold her, this naïve child grown into a woman he could conquer the world with.

Only for Sansa Stark would he ever call himself a fool.

When the sun had fully risen, so too did Lord Baelish. He carefully removed himself from her embrace. Sansa hummed in her sleep as he pulled free, choosing to snuggle a pillow instead when she came to rest once more. He stood at her bedside. Gods, she was beautiful. Sansa was tangled up in the sheets, naked and perfect and pale and _his_. Petyr wanted nothing more than to crawl back to her, to take her under the morning sun where lazy thrusts and sleepy moans were all they knew, but that would have to wait. _Tomorrow, perhaps._ He had come too far to squander his plans for more intimacy with Sansa. There would be decades enough for that.

Reluctantly, he moved away. Petyr bathed and dressed as quietly as he could, shaking out his clothes and mumbling about how he should never have thrown them. He slipped on his shoes, the shoes of a rich man, though the soles were beginning to wear. Lastly he reached for the mockingbird pin on the sidetable, resting beside Sansa’s Tully brooch.

He stopped. Petyr remembered his words to her; _I won’t leave you alone here._ Sansa was an anxious girl, despite how she tried to hide it, and disappearing without warning could frighten her into disbelief. Contrary to what others believed, he never wanted her to be hurt. Sansa’s happiness benefitted him. Politically. Strategically. Emotionally. Petyr sighed as he let the pin remain on the table, giving her another glance before retreating entirely. He had a will of steel, but Sansa was a fire strong enough to burn him down. It was only a matter of time.

“Lord Baelish,” said Lothor as Petyr stepped out into the hall. He smiled at the knight, a loyal man if there was one, and closed the door behind him. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you?” Petyr looked up at him, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I suppose I am a bit later than usual. Slept in, I’m afraid.”

“I can see that.” Lothor glanced to the door, knowing who was on the other side. “She alright?”

Petyr narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not askin’ like _that_. I’ve no interest in the girl.”

“No,” said Petyr. “Just a different bastard girl named Stone, I’ve heard.”

Lothor huffed, folding his arms across his chest. He was trying to hide how flustered he was at the mention of Mya. Did he think Petyr didn’t know? “I care about Lady Arryn, m’lord. She’s been through enough.”

“That is why you’re going to stay and watch over her while I attend to details.”

“Details.” Lothor looked to the door again. “Does she know?”

“Not yet. Nor will she, not until the time is right.” Petyr clipped the cuff link on his sleeve, straightening his back. “Make sure no one leaves the manse. Clear all the staff, except the two women I’ve paid to tend Sansa while I’m away.”

“And the guards? The ones that aren't looking for Lord Arryn.”

“ _Out_ side. Not in.” Petyr smirked. “Can’t have anyone walking in at inopportune times.”

Lothor scoffed, half rolling his eyes. “Just warn me before you start so I can go very far away.”

“When I return, you can take residence in the other side of the manse with the rest of the guards. Lady Sansa will be safe under my protection. I don’t intend to leave her side for many, _many_ days.” His tone was all too suggestive and Lothor caught the hint. Petyr turned on his heel and walked down the hall to leave, the line between arrogance and confidence eternally blurred. He left promptly.

Petyr didn’t intend to be out for long, only to ensure that business was going as planned. He took two of the Arryn soldiers with him to ensure a tale would be told. The markets of Pentos were beginning to bustle, weary workers and farmers offering their foreign wares, and he was briefly reminded of the chaos of King’s Landing. He almost missed it, but Petyr ignored every merchant he passed in exchange for haste. He did not want to be away from Sansa longer than he needed to. If he was lucky, perhaps he could wake her with the possessive touches he’d been imagining, his mouth on her neck as she moaned in his ear. The thought made his pace quicken. He had waited too long for Sansa, but just long enough, and he would savor her with every second available to him.

Littlefinger found her on a bench by the docks. Mayana glowed in the sun, as if she were its daughter and belonged nowhere else. She was kissed by fire, too, though not like Sansa was. Mayana was exotic. Golden instead of red. He approached her when she stood to meet him, a tailored smile on his face. She was taller than Petyr by no small amount, but she knew how to let him greet her without wounding his pride. “You are brighter than the sun, my lady.” Littlefinger took her ebony hand and kissed it. “All of Pentos is envious of you.”

“You are no small spectacle yourself, Lord Baelish.” Mayana’s voice was teasing. Knowing. She slipped her arm in his and walked with him along the docks, past freshly-woken sailors who could never afford her. The sea lapped at the wood planks and lifted salt breezes into the air. “Why do you only have two guards? It seems a small detail for a man of importance.” She looked over her shoulder to the Arryn men a fair distance behind them. “You should bring more. Pentos is not a safe place these days.”

“So it seems.” Littlefinger smirked to himself as they rounded a building, down another stretch of harbor. More witnesses. He raised his voice slightly. “I have missed you. You were always my favorite, out of all the whores who ever worked for me. None can warm my bed as you did.”

“Of course not.” Mayana laughed, taking Littlefinger by the hand and giving him a flirty look. “Oh, Lord Baelish, you must need comfort after the disappearance of your nephew. Enough of these little games. Come with me. I can take your stress away.”

“I’ve no time, my dear.” He placed his hand on her hip, sparing a small glance to the knights behind him. They looked irritated by his lechery. “You have grown more beautiful since you left my employ, but my niece needs me. Lady Arryn so misses her husband. I must be her strength until he is found.”

“Do not worry. I will make quick work of you.” She slid her finger down the front of his chest, pulling him into the small alley on their right. “Your guards can stay behind. It will not take long. I am expensive, you know, and I do not offer this to everyone.”

“No. You’re too smart to waste your talents in such a manner.” Littlefinger turned to the two soldiers, a lustful smile on his face. “Forgive me, sers. Wait for me, and don’t watch.”

Mayana giggled and pulled Petyr closer. He wrapped an arm around her as the guards grumbled something about wasting time. _Good. Let them ponder._ Littlefinger walked with his prized whore into the darkness of an alleyway, where shadows were more common than rats and city filth. He waited until they could no longer be seen before letting go of Mayana entirely.

“Well played,” he praised when their act was dropped. “I trust our mutual friend has been treating you well?”

“Well enough. He is not very good at pleasure, but I can change that.” Mayana leaned against a wall and draped her long braids over her shoulder. “Give me time. You will be sad to see him go when I am through with him.”

“I doubt that, my lady,” said Littlefinger. “But I will take my time waiting. I’ve a woman back home, you see, one I’m very eager to return to. I should like to make this little diversion as quick as possible.”

“Of course. Follow me.” Mayana waved a finger at him, summoning his obedience. Littlefinger let her take his arm again as she guided them down an adjacent alley, not too far but not too close by. Just as planned.

Standing at the dead end of the alley were four massive thugs, armored lightly with knives at their belts. They were bearded and burly and smelled of rum, but the calculation in their eyes told Littlefinger that their minds weren’t entirely gone to waste. He took them in for a moment before making his approach. He had dealt with their kind before. Child’s play.

“Gentlemen,” said Littlefinger with a small bow. “I thank you for coming promptly. Men who arrive on time are the only ones worth dealing with, I’ve found.”

The largest man looked him over from head to toe, and then Mayana. “Who’s she?”

“Your commission.” Petyr took a pouch of gold Mayana offered him from between her breasts and tossed it to the nearest criminal. She knew her role. Mayana took the collar of the third brute from the left and harshly kissed him, pulling him back until she hit the wall. Littlefinger did not watch them; he’d seen her in action enough to know what she would do. He folded his hands and focused on the expression of the thug leader instead. Shock. Awe. Desire. All signs of a successful first impression. Littlefinger wore his trademark smirk as Mayana began to moan behind him. Hopefully the Arryn guards would hear.

“Who are we killin’?” asked the leader, counting the coins from the velvet pouch. “Seems gen’rous to pay us before we’ve done anythin’.”

“Oh, I haven’t paid you for a death. Just your silence.” Littlefinger stepped closer, wielding intimidation like a blade. Mayana’s wails of false pleasure—Petyr knew the difference—added vitality to his words. “I don’t like working with men who break the silence I pay them for. Those who talk don’t keep their voices for long. Do you understand?”

“Aye.” The thug leader stroked his beard, considering the offer. “There’s more pay?”

“More than you can imagine.”

“And ‘er?” He gestured to the moaning Mayana, her long legs wrapped around the con who was railing her hard against the wall. “We get to keep ‘er?”

“She is not a woman to be kept,” said Littlefinger, turning his gaze back to the criminals. “She has agreed to service you on my coin. Consider it a gift. Mayana is one of the most desired women in Pentos.”

“How many times you payin’ for?”

“ _Once_ each.” Littlefinger was growing impatient. Men were foolish where their cocks were concerned. “No more.”

“Or all at once,” laughed Mayana as she approached his side again. Petyr looked over to her, watching her adjust her gown into a more appropriate state. The man she’d drained wore a giant, silly grin, one that didn’t belong on the face of such an impressive brute. Mayana took Petyr’s arm. “Have you forgotten the tricks, my lord? I could take them all at one time.”

She could. He’d seen it. Littlefinger clicked his tongue, shrugging lightly. “I stand corrected.”

“Deal.” The warrior smiled, and his companions chatted excitedly about the things they were going to do with Mayana the whore. “So, foreigner. Who are we killin’ for you?”

“You will learn soon enough. I’ll send word in a fortnight.” Without giving explanation, Littlefinger took his leave with the dark beauty on his arm.

Pride filled him. The final pieces were in place.

  


 

Petyr returned to the manor in high spirits. A morning of achievements left him aching for Sansa, but the ache was also similar to that of hunger, which had to be heeded. He stopped in the kitchens. The lack of servants was enticing to him and he took note of all the places he wanted to have Sansa screaming. Dark thoughts. Delicious ones. Petyr took a clean knife and began chopping select fruits to break his fast, watermelon and pears and fresh mangoes off the vine. He’d read that they were good for pregnancy in a book he couldn’t remember the title of. Petyr placed them on a platter after licking the juices from his fingers, wanting Sansa to refresh herself for the days ahead. He took a few slices of pear for himself before balancing the platter on his palm, leaving the kitchens and more carnal thoughts behind.

Petyr crossed the open halls to enter Sansa’s chambers. The silk sheets on her bed were a jumbled mess from their night of passion, but she was no longer tangled in them. He didn’t find her by the window or standing at the balcony. Petyr stepped further into the room and opened his mouth to call for her, but he lost his words when her voice caught his attention from behind a paper screen.

Sansa was bathing. He could see her shapely silhouette behind the divider and knew the sight he was missing, but it was her _song_ that truly captivated him. Sansa sang of gentle mercy from the Mother, an old hymn of the Seven he’d heard in his childhood. _Cat,_ Petyr thought suddenly. _She loved this tune._ He remembered her singing it in the sept at Riverrun when she would stop there daily to pray. It had been an endearing memory once upon a time, but now Petyr found no joy in thoughts of Catelyn Tully. Sansa’s voice was much softer. Prettier. Her loveliness was more tangible than the air around him, and he shamelessly moved around the screen to see what the shadows could not show him.

Sansa sat in a tub of steaming water, scrubbing her slender arms with flowered soap. Auburn hair snaked down her naked back. Her skin was glistening and beautiful in the sunlight that came pouring in from the open window, reflecting off the water droplets, making her sparkle. Petyr stood in awe of her. She was delectable, an apple with a golden core just waiting to be eaten. Her curves against the light of day, water dripping from her hair and pert breasts to pool in the scented surface of the bath…Petyr felt his chest tighten. _“We can survive this world together.”_ Sansa had said that to him. _Him._

She could rule him if he damned well let her.

Sansa rose fully from the tub after rinsing. Water dripped down the length of her body, over her tantalizing hips and skin, but she covered herself with linens as she began to dry herself off. It occurred to Petyr too late that she would turn. Sansa wrapped the towel around her bust and tied it before stopping dead at the sight of him standing there, watching her without permission.

Their eyes met.

“Petyr…” She was shocked, and rightfully so; he had not announced himself. He had watched her many times before, but never so openly, and he'd never been caught. A rare feeling of foolishness washed over him.

“Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to stare.” But he had, and she knew it. Sansa did not move, keeping the towel around her frame. Her mouth hung slightly open. If Petyr was a sane man, he’d cross the room and take her before she could utter protest, but he knew better. Her consent was delicate, like porcelain balancing on the edge of a table. He would not shatter it and ruin all the ground he’d gained.

Petyr set the platter of fruit on a table. “I brought you something to eat. You will want to keep your strength up.”

“Th-that’s…” Sansa stuttered. “Strength?”

“Yes. You had quite the night, my dear, and there are many more to come.” He eyed her with a hint of mischief, trying to brush off the small mistake he’d made as if it wasn’t a mistake at all. “I will leave you to dress.” He bowed low and took his leave. Petyr had no desire to make her uncomfortable, and the longer he stayed, the less likely he was to resist her.

Petyr entered his own given chambers, strategically placed right across the hall, and resigned to accomplish more work. He took to his ledgers and pushed Sansa from his mind. He wrote meaningless letters of courtesy, established contact with a local apothecary and calculated the gold expenditures he’d made for the four hired criminals. He used a wax seal to stamp the mockingbird’s authenticity onto the many letters piling up at the edge of his desk. It was a meticulous, peaceful place he took himself to when the game was being played from the shadows. Tranquil, almost. This was how it had all began; a little boy with a quill and parchment, ready to make men behave. He was in the middle of another letter when he heard his door open without a knock.

Petyr glanced up. Sansa slipped into the room, bringing all the beauty in the world with her. Auburn hair spilled over her back and shoulders, barely concealed in a sleeveless silk nightgown. In her hands, she carried a cup of dark blue water. Her hair was dry and the sun was at a different angle than it had been earlier. How long had he been working?

“You look radiant, my lady.” Petyr leaned back in his chair, quill and ink forgotten. _I’ve done diligent work with an orgy happening around me, but still Sansa manages to turn my head._ “I did not think you would come to visit me so soon.”

“Oh?” Sansa’s tone was light. Happy. “Did you think I would just sit in my room all day? You dismissed the servants. You’re the only other person here.” She paced the room, draping her fingertips along the spines of many books in his shelf. “I know why.”

“Do you?” He raised a questioning brow, but a smile was present. Sansa drank from her water and paused to look at him. Whatever confidence was bubbling in her slowly faded, and she drummed her fingers along the side of the goblet.

“I do. I do know.” Sansa quickly finished the medicinal liquid and set the cup on a nearby table. “I know more than you think.”

He narrowed his eyes, smirking at her little challenge even if she didn’t intend it. “Tell me what you know, sweetling. I’m intrigued.”

She carried something with her when she came to him. Sansa reached out, his mockingbird pin between her fingers, and began trying to fasten it to its place at his throat. He was glad that she’d found it, but Petyr chuckled and moved her hand away, kissing the inside of her wrist. “No need for that,” he told her. “It will come off again in a matter of minutes.”

Sansa bit her lip. His meaning was not missed. She met his gaze bravely, and he knew there was a spark of his desire in her somewhere, just waiting to be set loose. She placed the pin on the table behind him, leaning over his chair. _How great an opportunity._ Petyr gently took her by the hips and pulled her into his lap, her knees on either side of him. Sansa gasped but she was not displeased. She steadied herself with her hands pressed against his shoulders, resting back on his thighs to sit. The light behind her made her look like a painting of the Maiden in a sept, which was fitting to him. She was innocence. Purity. Everything Petyr no longer believed in.

He reached for her. Sansa smiled when he cupped her neck, brushing her beautiful hair away and pulling her in for a kiss. It was sweet, slow and without command, lips moving together to create something sinless. Petyr pulled away to meet her eyes. Her smile was content, joyful beyond any he’d seen before, and it struck him as equally odd and well-deserved.

“I know that you dismissed the servants to keep anyone from seeing us.” Her hands lifted to his cheeks, kissing him lightly. Petyr was weak for her touch. “I know you’ve been planning this for a long time. I know you’ve killed people to make this happen, and I know you want me all for yourself.”

Her kiss took his mouth again, deeper than the last time, but not as sure-footed. He ran circles on her hips with his thumbs, encouraging her to take whatever pace she felt was right. She had never initiated before and he was utterly enthralled with the idea. Sansa pulled away to kiss down his neck. Her movements were experimental if anything, but Petyr was happy to indulge them. “All correct,” he told her. “What else?”

Sansa lifted her head. “I know that you don’t intend to let me go, even if I want to leave.”

His lip twitched. He hadn’t been expecting that. “ _Do_ you want to leave?”

Sansa caught the knife in his words. She pulled away, brushing her thumbs along his cheekbones. “I want to go home, Petyr. I’ve always wanted to go home.”

“You will. Believe me when I tell you that you will.”

“Will you let me go afterward?” Sansa let her fingertips fall down his cheeks and neck. Softly, like rain. “Or will you stay with me?”

Hurt. He felt hurt. Petyr removed his hands from her hips in favor of the arms of his chair, and he looked at her with a frown. “Which do you prefer, my lady?” His tone was stern. “You are no prisoner. You must think me a barbarian to even entertain the thought.”

“No. No I don’t, I just…” Sansa sighed, her hands falling to the center of his chest. “You told me in King’s Landing that once we get what we want, then we want something else. _You_ said that. You’ve had me and you’ll—you’ll have a child, you…” She huffed, fingers toying with the laces at the front of his robes. “You’ll have gotten what you wanted. A new goal will await you, as far as I’m con—“

Petyr snatched the back of her head and captured her in a harsh kiss. He kept her locked with his lips and she struggled initially, but Sansa melted to compliance as her arms wrapped around him. She whimpered under his power. He was relentless, pressing into her mouth with his tongue. Her shiver only fueled him. Petyr left her gasping when he pulled away suddenly. “You are a beautiful fool, my love, to think I could ever stop wanting you. How many years did I wait? For you to be old enough? To be free of Joffrey’s engagement? Sansa, Sansa.” He shook his head and roughly took her mouth again, her lower lip between his teeth. Her eyed widened when he pulled back. “Don’t insult me by suggesting the impossible. I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone. I meant it. I know life has given you so many reasons to doubt good things, but I’m not asking you to trust life. Trust _me,_ and everything you want will be yours.”

Sansa’s breath was heavy when she pressed their foreheads together. He could feel her muscles relaxing under his hands. “Even Winterfell?” she asked. “Even you?”

“Both,” he replied, “and more. An Arryn heir. Stark heirs. Baelish heirs. The power of the North and the Vale together, under our guiding hands.” Petyr’s voice had become a low growl, laced with a desire he could no longer cage. “I’m not concerned with that at present, however, and would prefer my hands go to better use. Take off that gown before I’m tempted to tear the silk.”

Sansa laughed. The sound travelled straight to his groin, and he wore a devious smile as she pulled the dress over her head and tossed it aside. She was naked underneath, her skin so irresistible that Petyr was touching her before he could make a conscious choice to. His hands slid from her hips to her breasts, a bit too large for his hands, but not even the gods would hear him complain. He buried his face in her neck and ravished her with kisses. Her hands roamed his back, stoking his ardor. Sansa whimpered as he moved down her chest to the valley at the center, and pulled away to take a nipple into his mouth. The way her body shuddered was a sign of her arousal, and she clung to his shoulders, whining softly when his other hand massaged her opposite breast. His left hand slid up her spine and held her in place when Sansa’s head tipped backwards, a curtain of auburn hiding her body from the sun. She slipped her fingers into his hair to encourage him. Not that he needed it. Petyr would service Sansa when and wherever she desired it, and he would never again allow her to question the integrity of his lust.

His mouth left her breast with a “pop” and Sansa struggled to move her head down to meet him. She kissed him gently, because she was sweet and pure and ethereal and incorruptible. Petyr never knew if he wanted to crush her innocence and help her rebuild or cherish the perfection which he’d fallen for in the first place. By the laws of his beloved game, Sansa should not exist. Yet here she was. _His._

“Do you doubt me now, Sansa?” Petyr leaned back in the chair and brought her with him, kissing her with an iron grip at the back of her neck. “Tell me. Tell me you understand my desire for you.”

“I understand,” she panted.

“No. I don’t think you do.” Petyr slipped his hand between her thighs to pet her sex until it was sopping, but he found she was already wet for him. Sansa giggled into his ear.

“I think I do, Lord Baelish.”

 _Fuck._ Petyr couldn’t help but laugh, his breeches suddenly much too tight. “What did I tell you about dragging you into the filth with me?” He kissed her cheek, her jaw. “You were nervous to touch me just a night ago, and now you’re initiating what you were so scared to face.”

He hadn’t intended his words to bring pain, but somehow they had. Sansa’s smile fell and her eyes were distant. “It’s liberating,” she told him, barely above a whisper. “To come to you like this. To choose.”

Petyr understood. Not to the degree Sansa did, but he knew. He brushed his fingers against the sensitive nub between her legs, watching her smile and squirm. He didn’t want to see her frown anymore. “You will never suffer that again, and I will be here for you to choose whenever you decide to. So long as propriety allows.”

Sansa nuzzled his face with affection. Much to his delight, it was her who initiated the next kiss, deep and prolonged, accentuated by the roll of her hips on the hand between her legs. She tried and failed to form words. Petyr was content to satisfy her in whatever way she wanted, but when Sansa moaned into his ear, both hands on his shoulders as she rocked her body against him, Petyr knew he wouldn’t last like this. She was _too good._ Too much. He opened his mouth to speak until she took it with her lips, kissing him eagerly, greedily. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe he didn’t care.

To his back’s dismay, Petyr moved his hands to her sides and gripped her thighs, lifting her in his arms as he stood. Her gasp and giggle was a precious reward. Sansa was slightly taller than him, making the motion look awkward, but she was lighter than she seemed and the journey to his bed wasn’t a long one. Petyr fell on top of her when they reached his destination, his lips immediately finding her sweet-smelling neck to suck at the slope. Sansa hummed and worked his robes as he made his marks all over her chest, claiming her as his own, careful to place them where not a soul would see. He shrugged off his tunic when she untied it and came for her again, their chests together, the softness of her breasts against him making Petyr groan. He was uncomfortable with her seeing the scar, but Sansa did not seem perturbed by it at all, having said her apology the night before and moved on. If she did not mention it, neither would he.

Petyr didn’t bother to push his breeches all the way down. Just enough to set his cock free, hard as he’d ever been and ready to bury in the saccharine warmth Sansa offered. “Let me show you how much I want you,” he growled in her ear. “Tell me I can. _Beg_ me.”

“Please,” came her reply. He could hear the smile on her breath and lifted his head to see it for true. “ _Please,_ Petyr.”

He was not cruel enough to leave his lady waiting.

Petyr entered her without delay. He was slow at first, assuring she was alright before he removed himself and pushed in again. Sansa sighed and touched her forehead to his, an intimate gesture she was becoming fond of. He understood why. When they connected like that, he could almost feel Sansa reaching for his soul with hers, and while Petyr was never one to believe in such things he could see the merits in the moment.

His thrusts quickened in speed and force alike. He didn’t have to be as gentle with her this time, for her fear of him had dissipated to nothing, and he could give in to the animalistic side of his desire so long as she responded positively. Petyr could still feel the raised skin where he’d dragged his nails on her the night before. He chuckled, kissing her before propping himself up on his hands to thrust hard into her. Sansa’s moan was dark and desperate. Watching her sweet face contort in bliss almost spent him then and there, and he had to look at her slender neck to keep from falling off the edge of ecstasy before she did. Petyr would always make it a goal to see her peak first. If it wasn’t for a child or a small hint of selfishness in the act, he’d forget his climax altogether to focus solely on her. But Petyr _wanted_ to fill Sansa with his release. Not just for the sake of their lie, but because he wanted to claim the deepest parts of her with a trace of himself. To remove Harry entirely.

When he reigned himself under control, Petyr pushed into her again and again to a speed that would please them both. Sansa’s cries of pleasure were the sweetest song she could ever sing. _All for me._ The idea that her husband had never heard her this way, experienced her compliance like this pulled something dangerous from the darkness of Petyr’s heart; possessiveness. She was _his_. Fully, physically, mentally, emotionally, even down to the science of it. He would make sure she knew. His drive to please her ran wild. Sansa responded in kind, taking his lower lip between her teeth in a testing measure that made him purr into her open mouth. Biting him as he’d bitten her intoxicated Petyr beyond recompense, and he knew for the millionth time that she would be his undoing. Sansa’s delicious moans were becoming his favorite sound in the world, made better by the knowledge that only he had ever heard them. Her pleas met his ear. “Petyr,” she whimpered. _“More.”_

His growled response was immediate. “Anything for you.” His muscles ached and his back protested, but he complied for Sansa, anything for Sansa. He gripped the headboard to support himself as he fucked her relentlessly, always watching for her signs of fear or disapproval, but they never came. He could feel her inner walls clenching around his cock as he filled her fully time after time after time, a rhythm all his own. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands kept his face affectionately. Sansa’s breaths became shallow. He could feel her on the edge, teetering above the floating world and all he had to do was pursue her fall. Sansa clung to him. Her nails dug into his aching back and his name fell off her lips until she quaked and quivered beneath him. She was left mewling, clutching Petyr as her walls squeezed and released him within. Her moans, oh how she moaned, soft and sweet and all for him. He would have been smug if Sansa’s body hadn’t taken him with her, and his pleasure followed hers. Petyr sucked in a breath and drained into her. He heard himself say her name in the crook of her neck, grunting and gasping into her flower-scented hair. His release shook him so deeply that for a moment, he feared it was all a dream. But that couldn’t be true. No dream he’d ever conjured had been so flawless.

His hand slid from the headboard. Petyr stayed inside her despite his receding hardness, content just to stay joined. A few lazy thrusts caught the last stray whimpers from her throat and he kissed the lips they fell from. Sansa weakly laughed as he rolled over on his back, exhausted beyond imagination. _I will feel this in the morning,_ he thought, but it would be the most satisfying ache of his life. Sansa did not stay away for long. He opened his arms when he felt her moving, and she curled up at his side with her head on his shoulder, every inch of her wrapped in his embrace.

Petyr didn’t know how long they lay together. His fingers tangled in her hair and brushed along her arm, eyes closed to savor her touch. She made wreckage of him. All the songs and stories he’d longed for as a boy, Sansa had made a reality in a handful of days. _I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair._ Petyr scoffed at his own childish folly; who was _he_ to think of romance? Sansa snuggled closer before lifting her head. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, my dear. Just amused.”

“By?” Sansa nestled her forehead against his neck, trying to get as close to him as possible. He drew her deeper.

“Myself,” he admitted. “You. Us.” Language came naturally to him, but Sansa unraveled even that basic talent. Petyr rested his chin atop her head. “You are an enigma, my love, and I’m glad that I’ve conquered you. But never have I let someone gain power over me before. Not unless I was playing the game.”

“And you’re not now?”

He sighed, conflicted. “No. I’m not.”

Sansa smiled. He could feel the rise of her cheeks on his chest. Petyr kissed the crown of her head and settled his lips there, prepared to sleep until she spoke again.

“I don’t want you to play the game with me anymore. Not the way we did.” Her fingertips traced shapes over the center of his scar, and it made him frown. “When it’s just us, together like this, put the board away. No matter your intentions.”

 _No matter my intentions? Oh, sweet Sansa, you would not dismiss them if you knew._ The game was inside him. In his lungs, in his blood. It was how he survived a life of cruelty, not unlike her. Yet in that moment, holding Sansa so close, he wondered if he could truly allow her into the wasteland of his heart. She was a woman, a giver of life who _wanted_ him. Perhaps she could grow a garden where there was nothing but death. The thought alone was terrifying.

Petyr sighed into her Tully hair, a drape of fire over their bodies. What was it the red priests always said? _Death by fire is the purest death._ He couldn’t give her a definitive answer, for her question was far too troublesome, so instead he settled for the honesty she claimed to value.

“For you, my love, I will try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAAAAAAS. Back-to-back smut? Why, of course! Give me a reason not to.  
> *cue the wrath of God telling me how much of a sinner I am*  
> I didn't have a beta for this chapter so don't throw rocks at me if it's the worst thing you've ever read.  
> I think it's really interesting in this chapter how like...idk, it just kinda _happened_ this way but Petyr basically has this twisted view of Sansa's purity and like, IDK, I THINK IT MAKES SENSE??? Listen. It's smut. Take it and be joyous. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
>  I made room for another somewhat fluffy update on Saturday before shit gets real on Tuesday and the story finally ends NEXT Saturday. Damn, it went fast. I'm thrilled to see your reaction to the ending, and to start working on my next story!  
> See you Saturday, nerds. <3


	9. Where the Flower Grows

A wicked fortnight passed. Weeks of nothing but euphoria claimed her in the arms of Petyr Baelish. Sansa woke exhausted and went to sleep exhausted, hours of lovemaking leaving her sore and weary. Sometimes Petyr would wake her in the middle of the night for slow, lazy sessions under the stars. Other times he would take her to different parts of the manse; the library, the hallway, various bedchambers, even a closet. Sansa lost track of how many times he'd taken her, how many times she'd cried out in pleasure from his continued pursuit. All the sweet little things he'd say were stuck in her mind, accompanied by those that were equally filthy.

And he _was_ filthy.

 _My mother is rolling in her grave._ The thought made Sansa frown, and she sat up in bed with thoughts of her family. None of them would approve of what her life had become. She could hear her mother scolding her, scolding _Petyr_ for dragging her into a life of depravity. Hadn’t she raised Sansa to be better? Where were these transgressions coming from? Sansa knew she was a good person, believed it in her heart, yet the Stark in her was not fully at peace with her recent decisions. It _had_ to be done. This was preservation of the realm and the North. Sansa was no fool, and she wouldn’t let herself believe that her choices were made solely on nefarious desire. _That may be Petyr’s way, but it isn’t mine. It never will be._

Sansa’s foolish husband was still missing, according to Lothor Brune. The Knights of the Vale had searched every nook and cranny of Pentos, and still they were unable to find him. Rumors chased Harry around the city. A sighting in a brothel here, a purchase in a tavern there, but never any physical evidence to match the claims. “He’s here somewhere,” Lothor had assured her. “He’ll turn up.” But there was no longer any question of finding him alive. Harry Arryn was gone, Sansa was certain of it, and she only hoped Petyr had planned this well enough to keep himself out of suspicion. She didn’t know if she could face the future alone.

Sansa slipped on a nightgown and left her bedchamber in search of Petyr. He always checked his books after bathing and breaking his fast. Sansa had become an expert in his morning routine. She found Petyr in the library, writing something down in his ledgers as she’d suspected, the feather of a quill moving quickly with his handwriting. Littlefinger was hard at work. She admired him for it, despite knowing what despicable plans he could be hatching or carrying out with just a scratch of ink on paper. The thought no longer terrified her as much as it once did. As it still should.

Sansa padded silently to her lover. Petyr looked up as she approached. “A beautiful sight on a beautiful morning,” he said with a grin, turning back to his ledger. “You slept late, my dear. Apologies for not waking you sooner.”

“You’re forgiven.”

It was Littlefinger she spoke to now. Sansa could see the way he focused on his game after giving her acknowledgment. She waited until he was finished writing before plucking the quill from his hand and dropping it in the inkwell. Petyr chuckled and leaned back in his chair, lifting his eyes to her. “You mean to deprive me of my work?”

“Only for a moment.” Sansa came to him, sitting in her claimed seat on his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. Her legs draped over the arm of the chair and his hands were quick to find her waist and outer thigh, pulling her tight against him. Sansa watched the mask of Littlefinger slip away under the soft assault of her affection. He cupped her cheek and kissed her sweetly, a gesture she was all too willing to return, and Sansa settled her head in the crook of his neck when they parted. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“I would sleep well through a Wildling raid with you by my side.” Petyr straightened his back as if his words gained him some great victory. Perhaps they did; Sansa smiled, and she was certain he would consider that a triumph. “You’re still tired, though. I can see it. You should start blowing out your candles before midnight.”

“I _would_ ,” Sansa replied, “but the strangest thing keeps happening. Oh, Lord Baelish, you’d pale to hear the story. A man sneaks into my chambers and ravishes me every night before I can close my eyes.” She felt his laugh, a shake of his chest and a rush of breath. “Maybe you should talk to him about my sleeping arrangements.”

“So I shall.” Petyr’s moustache tickled her forehead when he kissed her crown. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your attention this morning, my lady? I know when I’m being manipulated, and I also know when I’ve lost. Do you have a request for which you toy with my desires?” His tone was playful. “I fear I could do naught but concede to such fiendish machinations.”

Sansa giggled. She found it funny, how mere months ago she couldn’t decipher the difference between Petyr and Littlefinger, but the answer had always been right in front of her. It was in his eyes, his words. When he was alone with her. She lifted her head and leaned in to kiss him. “Fiendish indeed,” she said. Her fingertips lazily stroked the gray patch of hair at his temple. “I did have a request, actually. If you want to hear it.”

“Mm. Tell me, then.” Petyr leaned his head back, relaxed by her touch, so she did not stop.

“I was thinking we could spend the day outside the manse,” said Sansa. “In the markets. The city. I only got to see Pentos’s wealth when I was with Harry. We went to parties and soirees, met all sorts of highborn lords and magisters, but I never got to see the _heart_ of this place. I’d like to.” Sansa looked at him. “If you want.”

Petyr considered her, walking his fingers up her thigh. “Everything I want to do involves staying indoors,” he said deviously, “but I cannot keep you here. If you wish to see Pentos, so be it. Your happiness makes me happy. But there will be conditions.”

“Conditions?” Sansa blinked. For a moment she thought his meaning was sexual, until he laughed at her conclusion and clarified.

“Not those kinds of conditions, my dear. We must be discrete. Your husband is still missing and the guards are a bit tense, to say the least. Necessity demands that the knights in our attendance are not all bought and paid for. We must be nothing more than an uncle taking his niece away from her sorrows.” He brushed a finger along her jaw. “It will be good practice for returning to the Vale, as regrettable as it is.”

“I can do that.” Sansa was not pleased, however. She didn't fancy hiding him from the world, and frowned in remembering that was her fate. She slid off of his lap, but his touch lingered at her hips as if he regretted letting her go. Sansa was pulled back by a tug at her hand. She knew what he wanted. As if offering an apology for their plight, Sansa placed her lips delicately against his in a kiss that was more pure than most. She kept them there and kissed him thrice, smiling against him. “I can’t go to the markets in a shift.”

“Unfortunately.” He released her with a sigh. “Dress yourself, then. I will meet you in the foyer. Don’t be long.”

“I won’t.” Sansa took her leave, feeling Petyr’s eyes on her all the while.

He was always touching her. Sansa had gotten so used to his constant presence that being without it made her feel unsafe. Uncertain. Petyr’s hand at the small of her back, on her cheek, a kiss on her head or an unexpected embrace were things she would come to miss. He’d trained her body to want him. Sometimes she wondered if he touched her out of fear she would slip away, but who was Petyr Baelish to practice fear? Sansa knew this deceptive, arrogant man better than anyone. If ever he feared something, it must be truly terrible indeed, but Sansa found she would face any of those monsters for him. He was her only family, now. In more ways than one.

Sansa spent a quick amount of time in the bath, making sure her door was locked. Petyr wouldn’t catch a glimpse. The less he saw, the more he’d crave her later. She was becoming quite good at their little game. Sansa chuckled at the love bites and bruises she found all over her naked skin, blushing at the ones between her thighs.  _He's ravenous,_  she thought with a smile,  _but he is mine._  When she slipped from the bath and dried, Sansa dressed in a gown of flowing green silks with a woven gold bodice, the height of eastern fashion. Why didn’t Westeros have sleeveless gowns? She slipped on a pair of sandals and pinned back her hair, the final touch, knowing Petyr would appreciate her efforts to appear ladylike. She gave herself a nod of approval in the mirror before leaving to find him.

Sansa stepped into the foyer. Petyr was dressed sharply as always, prepared for the day with five loyal members of her absent husband’s guard. Ser Lothor was there too, and it was comforting to see him filling a protector role that had long been void. “Lady Arryn,” said Petyr in a respectful tone.

“Lord Baelish,” she replied. The desire in his eyes was not missed, the way he absorbed her from head to toe, soaking in her beauty. “Thank you for taking me out today. It will do good to get some fresh air.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” With a slow blink of his eyes, he offered his arm. She eagerly accepted. Accompanied by Arryn soldiers, they left their manse of misbehavior in favor of the Pentoshi sun.

The heart of Pentos was more wondrous than any soiree she’d attended with Harry. Massive brick towers stood at the corners of the bustling market square, pale against the high city walls in the distance. A light-hearted foreign tune combatted the chatter of bastardized Valyrian, creating a new kind of sound unique to the city she was coming to love. Sansa was enchanted. Never had she seen so many men with their hair forked and dyed in strange colors, women with beautiful dark skin or so many hues of silk and satin for sale. Incense flooded her senses and relaxed her, and children’s laughter eased her weary heart. “It’s beautiful,” said Sansa in wonderment. “I’ve never seen a market like this. It’s so…busy.”

“Yes. Quite colorful as well. High in contrast to Winterfell, I imagine.” Petyr kept his distance despite their locked arms. “I will let you be the guide today. Go where you wish, my lady, and I will follow.”

There were so many things Sansa wanted to do. She wasn't sure where to start, but as they walked further into the marketplace, she felt herself unwind. Sansa spoke as best she could with those who understood the common tongue, marveled at the handmade wares and blabbed to Petyr about what each trinket reminded her of. A cloak like the one she made Robb, a wolf pelt that looked like Lady's, a bit of silk that made her think of Shae. She even sampled a delectable Pentoshi delicacy she couldn’t pronounce the name of. It was succulent and savory and melted off her tongue, and she found herself wishing the Vale could make it too.

Despite her surroundings, Sansa didn't purchase much. She preferred to take memories as her souvenirs of choice, having learned long ago that material possessions could only be left behind. That didn’t stop her from examining the options, though. She picked up a strange violet flower with large petals and a yellow center, only because it smelled so sweet. She put it in her hair and beamed at Petyr when she turned to him. "How do I look?" asked Sansa with a giggle.

Petyr took one glance at her before averting his eyes. “The flower suits you, my lady.”

Sansa’s smile fell. Oh, she’d been careless. Petyr wanted to tell her how she truly looked, she could read the answer in his face, but he couldn’t voice it aloud and that hurt him. _It’s all spiraled around me._ Sansa knew she couldn’t reach out to him or apologize, so instead she removed the flower from her hair and placed it back on the table.

There were many other items of interest, at least. Sansa saw jaded combs, intricate pottery and blown glass, jewelry boxes and herbal tea, but something less expensive caught her eye. She reached for a plush toy, a small thing meant for a child, and grinned when she felt how soft it was. The toy was a little stuffed sheep with a brown face and white wool body, with floppy ears and big black button eyes. A pink nose was stitched above the mouth. Sansa remembered Rickon having something similar, though his was a direwolf instead of a sheep and was forgotten the moment Shaggydog came to him. _Oh, Rickon._ Sansa smiled at the thought of her brother’s face, always asking if his direwolf could play with her dolls.

“Merino,” said Petyr, pulling her from her reverie.

“Hm?”

He gestured to the toy in her hands. “Merino wool. Said to be among the softest in the world.” Petyr chuckled when she looked confused. “There was little else to do in the Fingers but chase sheep, much like the one whose wool crafted this. We made a game out of it as children, you see. When the old hounds tired from chasing the flock, the shepherd’s children and I would—“

Petyr stopped. Sansa met his eyes, grey-green orbs of regret. He looked as though he’d let slip a dangerous secret and she could feel his discomfort in the air between them, growing larger by the second. “You would…?” Sansa asked gently. “It sounds like a fun game.”

In a blink, Littlefinger returned. Sansa frowned as the mask took her lover away. “Ah. I would not bore you with childhood stories, my lady.” He addressed the toymaker instead. _“_ _Skorkydoso olvie?”_

_“Izula.”_

Petyr retrieved a small purse from his pocket and handed four Pentoshi coins to him. The merchant bowed to them in gratitude when he took his payment. _“Kirimvose,”_ said Petyr in Valyrian, offering his arm to Sansa again. “The toy is yours. Save it for a child, Lady Arryn. Hopefully one of many.”

 _One of many._ Sansa knew his meaning and felt her cheeks flush. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she slipped her hand around his forearm and walked further into the marketplace, along with his gift.

Tension settled between them for the remainder of the day. Petyr was distant, not cold and heartless, but not himself either. Sansa tried to involve him in the festivities she chose, from dancing to conversation to sampling what was offered. Either he was very knowledgeable in his role, or he was hiding something. Sansa was too good at his game to let it slide. She nearly asked him what was wrong, until Petyr abruptly stood from the bench they were sitting on and announced his leave. “I’m afraid I must part from you here, my lady. Business matters require my attention. I will see you back at the manse.”

“What? But—“

“Ser Lothor and the knights will remain with you,” he interrupted, “though I hope you’ll forgive me for taking one of them off your hands. I am not nearly half as important as you are, but I do believe you would fret over my loss.” He placed a chaste kiss to her cheek. Sansa hoped he would whisper something to her, some inkling of his intentions, but Petyr did nothing of the sort and left before she could call him back.

  


 

It wasn’t until the sun began to set that Sansa returned to the manor. Pentos had treated her nicely, but the charm was lost without someone to enjoy it with. Lothor was only so talkative. She watched the red priests and priestesses begin their fire rituals to summon the dawn, their chanting accompanying her through the manse’s front door. Their song was eerie at first, uncomfortable to listen to, but there was something beautiful about the arrangement that made Sansa ache. She dismissed the soldiers in her attendance and brought that ache with her to the outer gardens, searching for peace.

Uneasiness swept over her. Sansa didn’t know why, but sitting in the gardens under twilight made her suddenly anxious. Pentos had been a place of recuperation for her, recovery and happiness, among other things. But something ate at her core. Instinct, perhaps, telling her that terror lay ahead. She remembered the feeling, as if she were back in King’s Landing and had never left at all. Nervous thoughts were her company. Sansa stood to reeneter the manse in search of the only person who could calm her, stopping when she turned.

Petyr was leaning against the door frame, watching her. In his hand was a purple flower. “Did I disturb you?” he asked coolly.

Sansa shook her head, just grateful to have him near. His eyes were heavy with concern when he observed her, likely reading the fear she’d tried to hide. She crossed the distance between them. Before Sansa could speak, Petyr stole a kiss from her lips and settled his hand at the small of her back, and she smiled. “You didn’t disturb me,” said Sansa. “You never could.”

“I doubt that, my dear.”

Sansa hummed when he cupped her cheek. Petyr could never seem to take his hands off of her when they were alone, not that she minded, but Sansa knew she was beginning to rely on that touch for happiness. A dangerous line to cross. She took him by the hands, pulling him back with her to the bench she’d been sitting on. Petyr sat at her side and placed the flower in her hair like it had been before, contrasting the Tully red. “You left so suddenly,” said Sansa when he curled her hair behind her ear. “Why?”

“It was business, Sansa. Placing the pieces, nothing more. I would have left the manse too, if we’d stayed in.” Petyr glided a finger along her cheek before removing it. “I was reluctant to take time away, but I’m glad we did. I look forward to a day when we can do this again without a need to hide our familiarity, when I can tell you that you look like a sun-bride with a lovely flower in her hair and not care who hears it.”

“A sun-bride?” Sansa laughed, her cheeks turning pink as she looked away. How could she still claim innocence? He’d said fouler things to her than confessions of beauty. “Now you’re exaggerating.”

“I manipulate the truth, Sansa. I never exaggerate.” Petyr pulled her chin toward him to catch her eyes again. “And I want to kiss the sun-bride as much as I did the snow maid.”

Sansa was weak under his gaze. She did not resist when he pressed his mouth to hers. Petyr’s kiss was slow and weightless, lips moving so sweetly that it pooled desire at the pit of her stomach. He pulled away after seconds had passed. “I have news from the Vale,” said Petyr in a low voice. “From Lady Waynwood.”

Sansa felt fear grip her heart. She didn’t say anything as Petyr removed his hand from her chin and placed it on the back of her shoulder.

“We will be leaving Pentos before the moon turns. The magisters say that Harry is surely dead, and it is best that the Lady of the Vale returns home.”

“Without Harry?” Sansa blinked. “Not even…not even with his body?”

“Half of the knights you brought with you will stay here in search of him, or whatever remains. You and I must go back to the Eyrie to finish preparing for winter. Without your husband, all of the Vale will look to you for guidance. You must be there for them.”

 _The Lady of the Vale._ Sansa parted her lips to sigh, fumbling with her hands in her lap. So many thoughts came through her mind at once—fear, bravery, careful calculation—but she only gave voice to one. “Did you mean it?” asked Sansa, looking to him again. “What you said about not having to hide.”

A small, frustrated sigh escaped him. “Sansa, sweetling. I did tell you that I wanted you to be happy. Having to hide your feelings and sneak around the Vale to be with me would not bring you happiness, nor would _I_ be content with the need for secrecy." Petyr lifted her chin with one finger, directing her eyes to his. “You are the Lady of the Vale, and in time you will be the Lady of the North as well. Who might say what such a powerful woman chooses to do? After enough time passes for proper mourning and to leave no doubt to the bloodline of your child, perhaps you will see need for another marriage. Who could speak against you choosing the Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident as your husband?” He chuckled and removed his hand from her. "Who can say what the future holds?”

Sansa’s beating heart leapt to her throat. He spoke the words so casually, like he was describing a vase he wished to purchase, yet somehow he brought as much security as he took. Sansa wanted so badly to be loved ever since she was little, to have a family and a husband, to be taken care of like a true wife should be. Marriage wasn’t something she wanted again until now. Contrary to his teachings, all she wanted was Petyr and Winterfell. The thought made her distressed. _I haven't learned anything at all._

“You're not just saying that, are you?” she asked meekly. "Not some power play? Using my deepest desires to 'know how to move me'?" Her tone was not accusatory, but fearful, for she had yet to put her full trust in him. She had been crushed too many times before.

Petyr’s laugh took her off-guard. She looked at him wide-eyed, afraid he was mocking her until his hands found either side of her face, pulling her close to him. “Sansa, once again you are a beautiful fool. What use is power without someone by my side? I've had one goal in mind ever since I first set foot on this path, and while the target changed the general shape of it remained the same. Power is only worth so much alone.” His eyes wore an intense focus she'd never seen in him before, as if he was trying to force her to see the truth through him. His touch left her face to take her hands in his, and kissed her knuckles gently. “You are the goal which all this power was meant to achieve, for the sake of helping me foster it. Not just for a tryst in a foreign city. I will make you mine in the sight of gods and men, and I will be yours. I will crush those who stand in my way like the worthless gnats they are.” He faltered then, leaving Sansa on the edge of his next words, but they formed before she could inquire. “I have loved you, Sansa. Too long have I kept that love distant, away from you to watch you grow, but now I leave it at your feet for you to take and shape in any way you will.”

There was no barrier in those gray-green eyes, no filter through which lies were told. Sansa saw only him. She could feel the tension in his hands, for he had gambled in confessing to her, but he’d manipulated her so well to the point where refusal would be fruitless. Sansa knew she was with child. It was far too early to feel the babe inside her, to physically see any evidence of her pregnancy, but in her heart she knew. _He_ knew. And he had crafted this moment to his advantage knowing she was so very like her mother, that barring him from her life forever was no longer an option.

She did not want it to be.

A smile spread across her face, contradicted by tears. Sansa pulled away from his touch out of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'm sorry. I just..." She wiped her cheeks with both palms, feeling like a slave shackled to a master, yet a queen in her own right. Perhaps she was one. Petyr was king, holding the board to the game of Westeros, and he'd chosen her to stand at his side. He'd  _made_  her. But something in her spirit was enough for him to be satisfied, to seek her through bloodlines and social status. Sansa wept. It was all she could do, the husk of a broken girl given the sustenance she needed to survive. Tainted love was better than no love at all.

Petyr looked unraveled by her tears. “I did not mean to upset you.”

"No. You didn’t, I promise. I _am_  a fool," she said in confirmation. "You taught me not to be, but here I am, undone by you. Not the knight I always wanted as a girl, but we both know the songs aren't always true. Love, though…” Sansa beamed. "Maybe those songs have merit."

She extended a hand to touch his cheek, soft and gentle. Like he was glass. If Petyr had never been loved in his life, Sansa would surely fix that. She leaned in to kiss him. Petyr brought out the child in her, the one who felt giddy at the prospect of happily ever after. How ironic; was that not what he'd tried to purge from her to begin with?

Petyr was the one to pull away first, but he remained close with their noses almost touching. “If that's enough to be named a fool, then I am a fool as well. The heart can do strange things to you if you let it.” He smiled wryly, voice holding a bit of silliness. “Perhaps I should discard the game and take up the craft of a minstrel. Would you come with me if I took to traveling the world, singing for my supper?”

"I will go wherever you go." Her answer was kind where he was playful. "I know your scheming and your plans take you many places, but you have my heart, so it travels with you. Always." Sansa lifted her eyes to his. "You've already won on that count."

Petyr wore a smug grin. "And I would happily name it my greatest victory yet, my love, perhaps the greatest I will ever know. Wherever my schemes and plans may take me, what remains of me will have a place in your hands. Always."

Why did it all sound so familiar? _Ah,_ she thought suddenly. _Marriage vows._ Sansa recognized the parallels and did not mind in the slightest, not even as he kissed her to solidify them. She was not left wanting. Petyr took her with fire, his hands grabbing her hips and pulling her into his lap. She straddled him and kissed him heatedly until he lowered her to the ground, her back pressing into the garden grass, and the lovers claimed each other as their own beneath the eastern stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> booooooo @ this chapter omg, my beta isn't here to help me with NOT BEATING MY HEAD AGAINST A WALL  
> BUT AT LEAST SHIT'S ABOUT TO GET REAL so I can finally set this thing up on the path toward my delicious ambiguous ending! Hooraaaaay.  
> See you Tuesday for an update that might actually be worth your while oeignaoeigmjaoirng but at least this has some of them being cute, so I guess it wasn't _entirely_ a waste of your time. Again, no beta on this chapter so sorry if it's shitty garbage.  
>  Love you!!


	10. Bloodied Dagger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * This chapter has some content that might disturb people. Read at your own risk.

He never meant to fall in love with her. Sansa Stark was supposed to be a means to an end, an apprentice to his mentor, but she’d become more. A pinnacle of everything he’d abandoned. Purity. Kindness. Acceptance. Grace. Things Petyr lacked, but never truly missed.

Had Petyr ever known love before Sansa? He thought that he’d found it in Catelyn Tully long ago, a woman with red hair who gave him the gift of her time, but his heart became a twisted thing in the aftermath of her. No, love was _Sansa’s_ sigh against his lips. Love was the smell of her skin, her genuine smile, her honeyed moans into his open mouth. Love was being with her. Ruling with her. Fucking her. Killing for her.

Petyr would know, for he’d done exactly that.

Watching her sleep had become a favorite pastime. Sansa was so peaceful when dreams took her away, so unaffected by the pain she’d suffered. Petyr grinned and turned away from his sleeping girl in favor of the hearth he stood beside. He rested his hand on the mantle, watching the flames that so reminded him of her hair.

 _Almost midnight,_ he thought with a grin. _Almost time._

He didn’t know how long he was there, but Petyr’s grip on the mantle tightened as he felt slender arms wrap around him. Sansa’s hands slid upward and met at the center of his chest. Petyr felt her lips graze his neck as her body pressed against his back, and he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly to stop the shiver in his spine. “Why are you out of bed?” asked Sansa sweetly. “Is something wrong?”

“A chill took the room. I didn’t want you to get cold.”

“Oh.” Sansa rested her head on his shoulder. He couldn’t stop himself from brushing his cheek against her soft hair. “I can feel your heartbeat,” she said. “It’s so fast.”

“That is because of you, my love.” Petyr took one of her hands and lifted it for a kiss. “Did the fire wake you?”

“Mhm. It’s really bright.”

“I will douse it, then.” But he did not move to do so. He kept her hand in his and stood there. For a second, Petyr fooled himself into thinking _he_ was the one holding _her_ , but he wasn’t. Sansa was being the caregiver, as was her nature. Petyr felt oddly calmed by her intimacy.

Sansa’s fingertips grazed along the front of his shoulder. Her voice was very small when she spoke. “I’m pregnant.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

Petyr chuckled, kissing her hand again. “That was the plan, remember? We’ve done nothing but work quite diligently for this outcome. With the addition of a fertility supplement, you would have to be barren to not be with child at this point. And I am certain you’re fertile.” He toyed with her fingers thoughtlessly. “Most Tullys are. Even the Starks were known to have large families. You were one of five, your father was one of four, and your mother would have been one of six had her three brothers survived infancy.”

“A comforting thought,” shot Sansa.

Petyr smirked. “Don’t worry. I assured you that every maester in the Vale would be at your service, and more if you wish. You will bear a healthy child.” _I will make sure of it._

“Mm.” Sansa hugged him close and placed a kiss on his shoulder. She was such an affectionate girl, always pulling him back from whatever path of thought he was barreling down. “Are you sure I’m pregnant?”

“ _You_ are sure.”

“But it’s different to have someone else notice, too. I haven’t been examined or anything. I don’t know for certain.”

Petyr almost laughed. He turned in her arms, taking her face in his hands as he so liked to do, admiring the innocence in her eyes. “For such an intelligent young lady, you are prone to witlessness. The Stark in you, I imagine. Your breasts are tender to the touch. You get dizzy upon standing, and this morning I heard you vomit. You smell different. You _taste_ different.” He kissed her slowly, so she might feel his earnest intent. “Exhaustion must be causing these doubts, for you know as well as I that you are with child. You need to sleep, my love. Go back to bed.”

Sansa yawned, as if her body was proving his point. She smiled afterward. _That smile._ “Alright, alright. You win.” Sansa took him by the hands and pulled Petyr to bed with her, a sight that was precious to him. She crawled to the middle of the mattress and Petyr landed on top of her, ending her laughter with gentle kisses. He ached to please her further, to hear her sweet sounds and fill her completely, but there was no time. He would have to wait until the job was done. Petyr gave her a long, final kiss before lying down and opening his arms for her. Sansa snuggled up at his side, and fell asleep quickly in his embrace.

Midnight came and went. Petyr waited until Sansa was deep in slumber before untangling her from his arms. A night of passion had left his rich garments discarded about the room, but he did not reach for them. Petyr returned to his own chambers across the hall and removed a set of black eastern clothes from a box under his bed. He grabbed a patchwork cloak from the closet and returned to Sansa’s side long enough to place his mockingbird pin on the bedside table. If she woke, she would know of his inevitable return. He leaned down to brush her hair from her face and kiss her forehead tenderly, wondering if she knew her place in his black heart, knew the things he would do for her. Sansa stirred under his touch, but remained asleep. Oblivious. He left shortly after.

Littlefinger slipped silently from the manse. He was nothing more than an indistinct shadow among many, and preferred to keep it that way. He hurried along the route he'd mapped, staying to dimly lit streets until he passed through darkness. Subtle markers littered the walls of alleyways to indicate safe passage through the dark maze of Pentos. The magister who ran the underbelly of the city had decided years ago that rampant crime was bad for business, so cryptically labeled pathways were established to allow wealthier criminals their unhindered work, and the scummier class had free reign over the rest. Petyr was delighted to see what could be accomplished by a ruthless visionary with work ethic and diligence. Maybe that was why Petyr chose Pentos to begin with. It didn’t matter _where_ the death occurred, only that it must, but there was charm in using coin to support a magister so very like himself. _I shall have to come here again,_ thought Littlefinger, _long after this is behind us._

A ramshackle home sat on the crest of a hill, coming into view when he rounded the corner. The red-tinted lantern marked his destination. Petyr opened the locked door, to which he held the key, and climbed down into the cellar below that smelled of sweat and incense. The sight that met him was quite pleasant. Nothing but a bed, some food and water and wine, Mayana’s favorite “equipment” and Mayana herself. She stood against the wall beside a bare-skinned girl with a caramel complexion. Her smile spread wide. “It seems we have a guest, Lord Arryn.”

In the center of the cellar, Harrold Hardyng was on his knees. His arms were chained above his head and a gag clogged his mouth, and he sat naked as his nameday, delirious and half-conscious. Harry obviously hadn’t recovered from his last dose of nightshade that had been used to keep him asleep and helpless, but he recognized Littlefinger at once. The fool tried to shout something, perhaps a plea for help, but the gag muffled it into useless grunts. Petyr ignored him and turned to Mayana instead. “This is a nice arrangement,” said Littlefinger. “As always, I am impressed.”

“You should be. I have gone through great lengths to make it comfortable for him.” Mayana poured herself a glass of purple wine and offered it to the second girl, who declined. By candlelight, Petyr could see bruises on her bronze skin in some interestingly indicative spots.

“And who is our lovely friend here?”

“This is Jhaka. Half-Dothraki. Loyal girl, innocent enough to leave your soldiers without any doubt.” Mayana gently pulled Jhaka’s long hair over her shoulder. “Doe eyes, you see. Pretty thing.”

“Yes, very pretty.” But Petyr had no interest. His eyes returned to Harry, who began struggling more as the sedative wore off. "Tell me, Jhaka. Have you been taking good care of his lordship?"

“Yes, m’lord. And all his parts.” She shot Petyr a suggestive grin, one that undoubtedly won her many wealthy admirers.

Mayana chuckled as she approached Petyr to kiss him on the cheek. A friendly gesture. She paused as she got close to him, tilted her head to the side, and let out a low laugh. "You smell like sex.”

“Do I? This room itself has the same musk.” Littlefinger smirked. “Are you certain I carry it too?”

“Were it not the scent, I would see it in your eyes. I know that look in a man.” She took his chin in her hand. “You got what you wanted, did you? The girl?”

“And more.”

“Wonderful. I am glad.” She patted his cheek, almost like a mother. How lucky she was, to be allowed to touch him. She took a sip of her foreign wine. “Mister Harry has been eager. I do not like forcing people, but Jhaka never had to with this one. All his marks, all his abrasions, all of them are genuine.”

Littlefinger turned his attention to Harry. It was an embarrassing position, really, but Petyr did not pity him. He observed all the bruises and scrapes and faded scars in admiration. "You made it look real, yes?"

“I think so,” said Jhaka. “The rest is easy. People saw us together.”

Petyr continued his distant examination. “And you, Mayana? Your part is done?”

“Many in Jhaka’s little corner of Pentos have complained about the sounds at all hours of the day. You remember teaching me how to moan?” She laughed. “It came in handy.”

“Good. Good.”

Mayana walked over to Harry, patting his side like a swineherd proudly showing off her stock. "I gave him some of my own attention as well. Take a look for yourself."

Littlefinger grabbed a lantern and brought it over to inspect his captive. He paced around Harry, examining his battered body at the many angles available to him. Harry’s wrists were bound in manacles lined with velvet to ensure there would be no marks of confinement, but that was the only _un_ marked skin Petyr saw. Bruises dotted his neck and collarbone. Red trails lined his sides and back and legs, a mix of old and new, the tracks of nails and leather digging into flesh in the heat of passion. Harry’s backside was similarly marred in the shape of a firm grip. As he rounded the front, Petyr noticed that Harry's genitals were red from chafing. Littlefinger quirked a brow at his faithful Mayana, a smile pulling at his lips to meet the grin she was still wearing.

“You said to make it look real, so I made it real. The poor boy was confused, but he was very willing, I give him that. He looks like he has been fucking a wildcat, no?" She gestured to Jhaka’s body. “More evidence. I will make sure she rehearses the story. And you will make sure we are paid.” She phrased it as a statement of fact, as it was. Littlefinger was happy to pay this debt. Mayana was one of the few he trusted with a secret.

“I will pay you extra for a job well done. Excellent work as always.” Littlefinger moved to Jhaka and placed his free hand on her shoulder, ignoring how she flinched. “Look at me,” he said. “Has Mayana told you what I do to those who betray me?”

“Yes.” Jhaka smiled, but it was not reassuring. “She chose me well, m’lord. I will do this thing as she says.”

“Smart girl.” He removed his hand from her. “Now, dress and send in the others. You know your part to play come daylight. I expect you to be suitably bereaved.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Jhaka swiftly left the cellar to do as Littlefinger bid. Petyr placed his lantern on the floor beside Harry and sighed, not speaking until the latch closed behind her.

“Dispose of her when this is done,” said Petyr. “I’m not fond of loose ends.”

Mayana clicked her tongue in disappointment. “Come now, Lord Baelish. I like this one. She is quite talented, and some of my clients like the idea of fucking a savage.”

“Find another. There are plenty, I’m sure.”

She sighed, finishing her drink. “As you say.”

Littlefinger took the lantern again as his four hired thugs climbed down into the cellar. They quietly dressed poor Harry in a simple tunic and breeches. The shirt was a bit of a challenge as he began to struggle, but with four men against one there was nothing he could do. After a few minutes of hassle, Harry was dressed but still chained, eyes beginning to close again.

“Wake him,” Petyr spat.

Mayana gave Harry a pitying pat on the head. She grabbed a bucket from the other side of the room, filled with ice and water, and dumped the contents on Harry’s broken frame. Littlefinger watched the boy jolt to a waking state, breathing over the gag in his mouth as though he were drowning.

His eyes found Petyr’s and narrowed in anger.

“Oh, Lord Arryn, there's no need for that.” Littlefinger stood straight, forcing Harry to crane his neck to look up at him. "You would have been rid of me the moment we returned to the Vale. You were standing in my way. It's business. But I _do_ take a certain pleasure in being rid of fools, especially those who hurt the ones I love.”

Littlefinger yanked the rag from Harry’s mouth. The young lord gasped and struggled for breath, but Petyr did not care. “All you had to do was bed my daughter, Harry. A simple task. Surely the mothers of your bastards were bedded properly instead of raped. Or did you force them as you forced my Sansa?”

“Not…not your daughter,” coughed Harry. “Stark. Sansa _Stark._ ”

Petyr laughed coldly. “Who raised her up from a prisoner of war? Who cared for her? Taught her? Saved her? Killed for her? Surely not her true lord father, who would have seen her wed to King Joffrey. I was doing Sansa a service, bringing her to you. And you tainted my purpose with violence.” Littlefinger pulled the dagger from his belt and teasingly examined the tip of the blade. “What was I just telling Jhaka about people who betray me?”

“Lord Baelish—“

“I asked you a question.” Petyr’s voice took a dangerous dive, and Harry stopped his frantic pleas. He knew his life was over. _Finally._

“You were…telling her about the things you do to them.”

“Yes, I was. And now you will find out firsthand.” Littlefinger gently pressed the blade against Harry’s throat, moving mere inches from him. He visibly cowered under Petyr’s intimidation. “Who is your heir, Harry?”

“I—I don’t—“

“You don’t have one. I wonder why that is. So many accidents over the years, so many lesser Arryns meeting their fates. Well-armed tribesmen here, sickness there, a fatal fall…yes, it’s all quite tragic.” Petyr looked away, faking concern. “Now it all comes down to you.”

Harry huffed in defiance. “You won’t get what you—“

 _“Quiet.”_ Petyr nicked the blade on Harry’s skin. Blood dripped down his neck as he cried out, small droplets as a warning. “I don’t want to hear you beg for your life. You won’t get it. But I do want you to understand that Sansa was never yours to harm. She was _always_ mine. In King’s Landing she was mine. In the Eyrie she was mine. Here in Pentos, she is mine. _You hurt what belongs to me._ And soon, dear Harry, that debt will be repaid.”

Petyr pulled away and nodded to the hired thugs. Harry tried to shout, but a massive hand returned the gag to his mouth as the men began to beat him. Not to the death, just enough to make Jhaka’s story believable. Broken ribs and a black eye. They dragged him backwards up the stairs, and Petyr followed with the lantern, watching Harry’s weak struggles with amusement. Oh, revenge was sweet. One of the men left to ensure their route was clear, and when he gave the signal the other three continued pulling Harry into the night. They did not have far to go. A shadowed alley between two large buildings constituted the quickest route from Jhaka's home to the nearest tavern; a perfect location indeed. The thugs pushed Harry up against the brick wall, holding him securely, and Littlefinger approached with the blade from beneath his cloak.

There was no ceremony. No last words. Petyr rammed the dagger into Harry's left side and buried it to the hilt. Blood rushed over his fingers as Harry began to gasp and grunt, his body begging for help, and Petyr would not oblige. Harry fell to the ground when he pulled away. Littlefinger watched in triumph as Lord Arryn bled out into the dirt, knowing his debt was paid.

The writhing stopped. Harry was dead.

“Well done,” praised Mayana from behind. Littlefinger wiped his blade on Harry’s breeches as the four brutes set about staging the robbery. The gag was removed, Harry's empty coin purse tossed aside, his pockets turned out, and a skin of wine was dropped at the scene.

“Well done indeed.” Petyr was impressed with the criminals’ work. It was almost a shame that they had to die, too. Almost. “Mayana, my dear, see that our friends are paid for their hard work. I do believe you promised them quite a night.”

“I did,” chuckled the whore. “Come. Once Jhaka alerts the city guard, I will see you are paid in full.”

There was nothing more to say. Littlefinger took in the sight of Harry a moment longer, a useless piece flicked off the board, before gathering his pride and disappearing into the shadows of Pentos once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DROP THAT MIC PETEY  
> Ah, this chapter is so satisfying from his perspective. NICE. He's so happy. I love it when Petyr is happy.  
> On top of all the endnotes I could put here though, I think it's absolutely important to know that Petyr walked out into the hallway buck ass naked and Lothor was probably on guard like "FUCK, _WARN ME_ PLEASE"  
>  One more chapter! Can't wait to finish this up and start on my next fic. Let me know your thoughts on this ~development. I'm interested to see your reactions/opinions on how I took care of business.  
> See you Saturday for the grand finale!


	11. Fruition

“Bring her to me.”

“But my lady—”

 _“Bring her to me.”_ Sansa’s patience thinned. She stood in the foyer, dressed like the widow she was, clutching a goblet of water in her hands. The taste of bile from earlier sickness poisoned her mouth. Not even the water could wash it away. She glanced down to the beaten body of her husband lying atop a covered table, eyes closed forever, and her stomach twisted and flipped. _I’m going to be sick again._

“Meeting her would not be wise in your grief,” said the knight. “She will offer you nothing that she did not offer us.”

Sansa huffed angrily. “I have been through worse things than widowhood, ser, and this will not break me. You will bring the girl here as I command.”

The knight who’d defied her bowed in submission, though his frown was not missed. He left the foyer promptly. Sansa stood alone with Ser Lothor Brune and a small company of soldiers, and Petyr leaned against the wall at the back of the room, watching. Waiting. She did not look his way. Sansa was disgusted and frightened of him, this man she loved so deeply, to whom she’d promised everything. She had made the dire mistake of forgetting what Petyr was capable of and the reminder was laid out before her. Lothor seemed to sense her distress and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Sansa placed her hand over his, letting him be the rock she stood on.

The knight retuned with the Pentoshi whore who’d been with Harry before he died. She had bronze-colored skin and dark hair, and eyes of innocence that Sansa knew her late husband must have adored. She collected herself as one of the soldiers announced Sansa. “You are speaking to Lady Arryn of the Vale, Wardenness of the East. Give your respects.”

“It’s alright, ser. Let her speak.” Sansa cleared her throat, sounding more at peace than she felt. She addressed the nervous girl with a mix of pity and sorrow, temporarily ignoring the body of her husband between them. “What is your name?”

“J-Jhaka, Lady Warden.” The girl bit her lower lip. Her eyes were focused solely on Harry. “My name is Jhaka.”

“That’s a pretty name.” Sansa should have felt awkward offering courtesy, but it never crossed her mind to do otherwise. “I want to know what happened to my husband, Jhaka. What _truly_ happened.”

Jhaka hesitated. She began to whimper until tears fell down her cheeks, and she hugged herself close for comfort. Sansa’s heart softened as the girl spoke. “I was his, Lady Warden. He found me in a tavern. He told me we’d run away together. Somewhere far.”

 _Of course he would hate lordly life enough to leave it._ Sansa masked her contempt for the dead. “Were there others apart from you?”

“Three, m’lady Warden.” Jhaka blinked up to her through the tears. “He said he’d take us all away. He paid us well at first, but we kept him and he kept us, just because we liked him so much.”

“ _Three_ of you?” Sansa clutched the cup in her hands, feeling nauseous all over again. “You spent two weeks in the city with him doing nothing but—nothing but—” _Nothing but the same thing I did?_

“It was weeks,” sobbed Jhaka. “We drank. We smoked. We fucked. We lost track of time. Even my employer fired me, I stopped coming to the brothel to work, but my lord paid me so much that I didn’t have to go anymore. He was so generous.”

“Generous.” Sansa nearly scoffed. She drummed her fingers on the side of the goblet and cast her eyes to some distant nothing. “How did he die?”

“We were on our way back from a tavern. Our favorite place. These—these robbers, these big men, they…” Jhaka’s breath trembled in oncoming panic. “I ran away when they attacked and I came back and my lord was dead. They took all his money. His life. Everything.” The girl shook and wept, great heaves of tears spilling from her broken form, and Sansa felt a familiar stroke of sympathy. Jhaka had been given riches no doubt, maybe she even loved Harry in their adulterous tryst, and maybe he loved her too. But his death was surely by Petyr’s design. For that, Sansa pitied her. She pitied everyone who’d stumbled over his ambition.

“I’m sorry you were involved in all this,” said Sansa calmly. “No one deserves such a fate.” She walked around the table and wrapped her arms around the crying girl. Jhaka wept into her shoulder and Sansa shushed her, stroking her hair with a pinch of her mother’s grace. “You can keep whatever Harry gave you. Try to forget what you’ve seen if you can, and if you can’t, take comfort in those you love. That’s the sweetest way to survive.”

Jhaka nodded, wiping her tears when she lifted her head from Sansa’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lady. You are so kind.” With a few ushered apologies and farewells, Jhaka was led from the room, and Sansa felt emptier than before. She placed her goblet on a table and took steady breaths, trying to keep her nausea under control.

“This _cannot_ be true,” muttered one of the knights. “Our lord, spending all this time in the company of whores? Disrespecting the daughter of Ned Stark? It’s an embarrassment.”

Ser Lothor laughed, though the sound was so bitter that Sansa flinched. “He’s been drinking and fucking and dancing long before he came to his new position. He’s been disrespecting Lady Stark since their wedding night. _Now_ you’re gonna talk about it? As if you didn’t know before?” Lothor folded his arms across his chest and scoffed. “He wasn’t meant to lead, and we all knew it. But at least he had the sense to marry some who can.”

Sansa let out a slow sigh. She appreciated Lothor’s gesture of faith, but she couldn’t take the praise, not when she wasn’t the responsible party. She glanced up to Petyr, the viper across the room. His hungry stare captured her. A smirk grew on the lips she loved to kiss, and Sansa knew she was going to be sick again.

“I’d like some privacy, please.” Sansa placed a hand over her abdomen where her child was growing, already protective. Her other hand rested on Harry’s cold arm. “Leave me with him.”

One by one, the knights nodded respectfully and filed out of the foyer, Petyr among them. He’d taken the hint in her icy stare. Lothor made to follow, but Sansa reached out and caught his wrist, needing someone trustworthy by her side. Lothor paused and remained with her until the last of the soldiers left them alone.

“Petyr did this,” Sansa whispered. “I know he did.”

Lothor awkwardly adjusted his stance, his arm limp in Sansa’s grasp. “How do you know?”

“He told me. He said Harry would never hurt me again, but I didn’t think it would be like this.” She ran her fingers gently over nail markings on her husband’s arm. “It’s disgusting.”

“I’m sure the boy was willing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I hope so.” Sansa sighed, removing her hands from Lothor and Harry in favor of the table. “Did you know about this?”

He cleared his throat. "I knew of Lord Baelish’s affections for you."

“Don't hide things from me.” She turned to him with a piercing gaze. “You were there when Petyr stole me from King's Landing. You knew I was Alayne the whole time. There's not a single part of me that thinks you never knew about his plans for Harry.”

Lothor scratched the back of his neck, a submissive look in his eyes. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?” His demeanor reminded Sansa of Sandor Clegane, so much that her heart ached, and she gave a small smile at his words. She looked in Lothor’s eyes and saw sincerity when he looked back. “I heard your cries in the night when your husband took you to bed. Your fighting. Your protests. And I told the Lord Protector about _all_ of it the moment he came ashore in Pentos. I don't claim to know what goes on in that brain of his and I don’t ask questions, but I know you want to be safe. He can bring you that safety. Everyone who stood between you and him are now rotting in the ground.”

Sansa knew. Her heart knew. She'd known all along, but like her father, she was too naive to confront it before. Tears stung her eyes. “I never meant for anyone to die.”

“Then you fell in love with the wrong man.” Ser Lothor handed her a handkerchief to wipe her tears. She took it and did so, and when she'd calmed enough, Sansa straightened her posture and summoned her last reserves of strength. She said not a word to the knight and left him in the foyer with what remained of Harry Arryn, searching for the man, the monster who'd made a mess of her life.

She found Petyr in the solar. Sansa closed the door behind her, feeling sick and weary, not wanting to confront him. Petyr was cutting a pomegranate and turned to look at her with a smile, but it faded when he saw her face. She approached him without ceremony. Without greeting.

“Be honest,” she demanded. “Why?”

“Because he hurt you.” Petyr furrowed his brow. He and Sansa stood in mutual surprise at his answer, but he recovered before she could comment. “Because he was in the way. Because everything I want, and much of what _you_ want, required Harry to die and nobody to question it.”

Petyr split the pomegranate in half and placed his dagger back on the table, taking the fruit in his palm. He licked the juices from his fingers before speaking again. “A simple stabbing in the dark would bring questions. An unfortunate accident would bring more. But a tale of a broad search for a missing man who turned up in very dishonorable circumstances? Nobody who cared for Harry will want to probe too deeply into that story. It won’t be long before our friends in the Vale revert to mentioning your late husband in whispers versus the open discussion one would expect.”

Sansa’s breath wavered as nausea came over her again. She felt the familiar clasp of Petyr’s shackles on her wrists. “ _All_ of it was you? Even the girl? Jhaka? And the woman who gave me the blue tonic…”

“Mayana,” said Petyr. “Both girls work for me, as did the men who staged the robbery.”

Sansa clutched her stomach. She didn’t know if she should be relieved at his words or revolted and disturbed. Harry had been taken as a slave for sex on Petyr’s orders, yet instead of mourning the loss of his soul, Sansa mourned what Harry could have been. What he should have been. What she could have _made_ him to be. Anxiety came to choke her before Petyr cupped her cheek, pulling her back to the present, and lifted her head to meet his gaze.

“You have a tender heart, my love, but I did what I must. I took his life myself for what he did to you. Normally I would let others do the unpleasant work, but there was a debt I needed to pay on your behalf.” He brushed his thumb along her lips, tainting them red with pomegranate juice. She could taste the sweetness on her tongue. Petyr’s voice was a low growl, not unlike his tone of arousal, and she felt it infect her. “Harry’s death was necessary for you and I to take control of the Vale, and the Vale is necessary to retake the North. I did it for you. For me. For the future.” His hand fell from her face to rest over her low stomach and the child they’d conceived. “I grew up under the Tully banner, Sansa. I know what it means to let a river run me. Yours are the waters I chose to drown in, and I will defend that right by any means necessary.”

Sansa’s heart swelled and sank all at once. She hesitantly placed her hand over his, her thumb making slow circles over the back of his palm, an affectionate gesture made against her will. Petyr had won. Harry was dead, she was pregnant with a bastard and the Vale would not question the nature of their lord’s demise. Everything had happened according to his dark plan. When she looked in Petyr’s eyes, she knew there was more to come.

“You need to eat something.” He pulled his hand away and offered her half of the pomegranate he’d cut. The fruit was ripe, perfect and full of delicious seeds that glistened with juice. It was _so messy_ , but he was right; she needed to eat. She needed to take what he offered. She needed play the game to see her family safe, and pray she didn’t fall in love with Petyr Baelish along the way.

With a deep breath, she accepted his gift. Petyr unclasped the mockingbird pin from his throat, working the buttons of his doublet and watching her bring the pomegranate to her blood-red lips.

She took a bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaand that's a wrap! I love the deliciously ambiguous ending here, because I'm a cruel bitch. I _might_ be coaxed into writing a sequel by popular demand though, but it'd happen after I finish my next fic. Probably.  
>  Speaking of which, my next thingy will start **Saturday, August 13th!** It's a PxS modern thriller/crime/murder fic that's got some good nasty shit. It'll be long too, so strap in for a crazy ride. I'm anticipating 100k words this time around.  
>  You can contact me on [tumblr](http://kitharington.tumblr.com) if you like! Please, I _thoroughly_ encourage you to comment/review and tell me what you thought of this story; your feedback helps me more than you know! I'm open to constructive criticism as well. Toss it at me, sinners.  
>  See you in August! <3


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